by Susan Napier;Kathryn Ross;Kelly Hunter;Sandra Marton;Katherine Garbera;Margaret Mayo
‘Last door to the left.’
Erin liked the family suite. It was clean, functional, comfortable, and right there waiting for them at the end of a long day’s driving. The bedrooms and bathroom were upstairs, the kitchenette and living area downstairs. If it had been Rory with her on this trip she wouldn’t have hesitated, she’d have agreed to stay there without another thought, but it wasn’t Rory, this was Tristan and there was a privacy issue to think about. ‘What do you think?’ she asked tentatively.
Tristan’s expression was guarded. ‘It’s fine.’
They’d just managed nine hours in a car together without finding a whole lot in common apart from an annoyingly persistent physical awareness of one another. Chances were that if he left the lid off the toothpaste and his towel on the bathroom floor, even that would fade. ‘Because we can try somewhere else if you’d rather.’
‘This is fine.’ In that remote way of his that promised distance no matter how aware they might be of one another.
‘We’ll take it,’ Erin told the woman back at reception.
‘What name?’
‘Sinclair,’ she said.
Tristan said, ‘Smith.’
‘Sinclair Smith,’ said the woman dryly. ‘Is that hyphenated?’
‘Yes,’ said Tristan.
‘I’ll need a car registration number as well,’ she said, and Tristan rattled it off.
‘Handy,’ said Erin.
‘Occupational hazard.’
‘Who’s paying?’ asked the woman.
‘I am,’ said Erin, fishing her credit card from her wallet. Tristan frowned and looked as if he was going to protest and Erin shot him a warning glance. She was paying for the accommodation. They’d discussed it already. ‘Two nights should do it.’
‘Stay three and I’ll throw in a free double pass to the town pool as well.’
Gee, the town pool. Huge incentive.
‘Maybe three nights,’ said Tristan with a lopsided smile that had the formerly forthright receptionist smiling coquettishly and patting her beehive hairdo into place, never mind that she was old enough to be his grandmother. ‘We’ll let you know.’
It didn’t take long to unload. Tristan had his carryall. Erin had a backpack full of clothes, a cotton shoulder bag with her jeweller’s loupe and a sketchpad and pencils, and a box of assorted groceries to bring in. Two trips, except that Tristan hauled her backpack out of the car along with his carryall, which left her with just the groceries and the shoulder bag. Rory would have done the same and Erin would have accepted his assistance automatically and thought nothing of it. That was what brothers did.
When Tristan did it she grew decidedly weak at the knees.
‘Do you want the room with the double bed in it or the one with the two singles?’ he asked from upstairs as she unloaded the grocery box in the kitchenette.
‘What colour are the sheets on the double bed?’
‘White.’
Damn.
‘They’re all white,’ he said, appearing in the kitchenette doorway. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘Not really.’ Who was she kidding? It didn’t matter what colour the bedsheets were, Tristan Bennett would look sensational on them. Of course, he’d look a lot less sensational wedged into a single bed but she didn’t really have the heart to make him sleep in one. He was bigger than she was. Gloriously, mesmerisingly bigger. She took a deep breath, blew it out again, and pushed all thoughts of white sheets, big beds, and Tristan Bennet aside. ‘I’ll take the single.’ There. Bedrooms sorted. Bedroom doors firmly closed. ‘What shall we do about dinner? Eat in or go out?’
‘What’s in the box?’ he asked.
‘Breakfast food, mainly. A few snacks. A couple of bottles of wine. Nothing that could constitute dinner. It’s more a question of bringing take-away back here or finding somewhere to sit down and eat. Depends what you feel like eating. And before we go any further, I’m paying for it.’
‘You don’t need to do that.’
He wasn’t comfortable with a woman picking up the tab for him. The deeply hidden, feminine part of her soul, which saw a man as both provider and protector, applauded him. But she wasn’t about to let him pay for his own meals. Not without an argument, at any rate. ‘Think of yourself as a business expense,’ she said. ‘Me, I’m thinking hamburgers. How about you?’
‘A works hamburger, heavy on the BBQ sauce,’ he said. ‘And your accountant is never going to see me as a business expense. Just so you know.’ He fished a fifty-dollar note from his wallet and set it on the counter beside her. ‘You provided lunch and breakfast is in the box. I’ll pay for tonight’s dinner. Don’t argue.’
It wasn’t his quietly spoken words but the cool, steady gaze that accompanied them that warned her not to push him. Pick your battles and never use all your ammo in the opening salvo. Her father had taught her that too, bless his military soul. ‘Okay,’ she said with a cool and measuring gaze of her own. She picked up the fifty-dollar note and headed for the door. ‘Good hamburgers heavy on the BBQ sauce requires local knowledge,’ she said. ‘I’ll go ask the receptionist where we can find some.’
The receptionist, whose name, Erin discovered, was Delia, gave more than advice. She called the shop, placed their order, and arranged for it to be delivered to the room. Two works hamburgers, one with extra BBQ sauce, and an extra large serve of hot chips with chicken salt.
‘Who are the chips for?’ asked Erin.
‘Your man. He looks hungry.’
Great. Another woman hell-bent on feeding him. ‘He’s not my man,’ she said firmly. ‘He’s just a travelling companion. A chauffeur.’
Delia cackled. ‘Honey, if that man’s a chauffeur, I’ll eat both your burgers and the chips.’ And after a pause, ‘Mind you, he’d look mighty fine in the uniform. Any uniform.’
‘Yeah, well, thanks for that.’ Erin did not want to picture Tristan Bennett in uniform. Unfortunately, she couldn’t help it.
He looked fabulous. Cool, confident, heartbreakingly remote…
‘Where were we?’ said Delia.
‘Uniforms,’ she said wistfully. ‘Navy formals. The dark blue with the gold braid.’ She had no idea what the Interpol uniform looked like, so she’d gone with what she knew.
‘I knew you’d catch on,’ said the older woman. ‘By the way, there’s a twenty-minute wait on that order. Sol’s always backed up this time of night.’
‘I don’t mind waiting.’
‘Why would you when you have a man in uniform to think about?’ said Delia. ‘You can use the time to visualise just how you’d go about getting him out of it.’
Five minutes later Erin was back in the motel suite. The burgers were on their way, she told Tristan, eyeing him darkly before following up with the somewhat puzzling statement that she wasn’t the slightest bit interested in the type of dress uniform Interpol cops wore. ‘Not a problem,’ he said and watched with no little amusement as she banged around in the kitchen, setting plates on the table, and searching the cupboards for wineglasses for the bottle of white she handed to him.
‘We’re drinking?’ he asked.
‘I am,’ she said. ‘I’m in need of a distraction.’
‘From what?’
‘You.’
‘Care to expand on that?’
‘Absolutely not,’ she said, finally finding some wineglasses and setting them down on the table in front of him. ‘Pour.’
He poured generously, for both of them. Maybe she had a point. Maybe wine would dull the senses and cloud the mind enough so that he could get through the night without doing anything monumentally stupid like acting on the awareness that lay thick and insistent between them. Or maybe not. ‘What if the wine doesn’t distract you?’ he asked. ‘What if it makes you even more focussed on what you’re trying to avoid?’
‘Let’s not dwell on it,’ she said, lifting her glass. ‘To opals and the buying of them. To brilliant designs, worldwide recognition, and restraint when i
t comes to acting on impulse with men in uniform.’
‘I don’t wear a uniform,’ he said.
‘Not sure I needed to know that.’
Tristan shrugged, stifling his smile. ‘To your success,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’ She touched her glass to his and drank.
The food arrived some ten minutes later and although the burgers were good, the chips were better. ‘Good idea,’ he said, indicating the chips piled high on a plate between them.
‘Delia’s idea,’ said Erin wryly. ‘She thought you looked hungry.’
He was hungry. ‘Who’s Delia?’
‘The receptionist.’ Erin regarded him curiously. ‘Women really like the thought of feeding you, don’t they? Why is that?’
‘It’s some sort of nurturing instinct,’ he said. ‘Also the way to a man’s heart. You should know this.’
‘So has Delia captured your heart?’
‘Not yet, but she’s certainly in the running. These are good chips.’
‘Anyone else cook for you back in England?’
He knew what she was asking. Thought it as good a time as any to let her know his thoughts on the subject. ‘Not on a permanent basis.’
‘How about a regular basis?’
‘Not even that.’
‘I don’t feel an overwhelming need to feed you,’ she said solemnly.
‘No nurturing thoughts?’
‘Not one.’
‘This is a good thing,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘Nope, when I think of you it’s all about wild passionate sex and losing my mind. I suspect you’ve heard that before.’
Not in this lifetime he hadn’t. ‘Don’t you have any sense of self-preservation at all?’ he demanded. Because his thoughts were already there, his body tense and hard as he undressed her in his mind, roughly, urgently, and took her right there in the kitchen. ‘Dammit, Erin!’ He closed his eyes, muttered a prayer, and tried to remember exactly why it was that he didn’t want Erin Sinclair in his bed or anywhere else he could think of to take her.
Because she was dangerous, his brain reminded him. Whether she was gunning for his heart or not, Erin Sinclair had the power to reach out and engage him on every level he could think of and a few more he couldn’t even name and he didn’t want that. No, he couldn’t risk that. He wouldn’t. ‘Drink your wine,’ he commanded, burning up with the knowledge that if she pushed him, heaven forbid, if she even looked at him with an invitation in her eyes, he’d never be able to keep himself leashed.
‘Good idea,’ she said, and picked up her wineglass with hands that trembled ever so slightly. ‘Geez. Who knew?’
Exactly.
‘I think we need another distraction,’ she said, setting her wineglass carefully back down on the table, and headed from the room without another word. When she returned she had her sketchbook in one hand and a fistful of pencils in the other.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Your portrait.’
‘Why?’
‘You, me, a sketchpad between us…’ she said, setting it on her lap and using her knees as an easel. ‘I’m going to objectify you.’
It sounded reasonable. ‘Who taught you to draw?’
‘My mother, at first. Then I took classes. It’s a useful skill for any designer to have.’ Her pencil moved sure and swift across the page. ‘Brood for me.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You know. Brood. Think about whatever it is that’s bothering you.’
‘You mean apart from the thought of wild, unfettered sex with a woman who doesn’t want to feed me?’
‘Not that,’ she said quickly. ‘You need to think about something other than that.’
‘Not sure that’s possible,’ he muttered.
‘Think about your work.’
Tristan glared at her.
‘Perfect.’
Tristan glared at her some more. ‘How long is this going to take?’
‘Not that long. I’m almost done. This is a speed portrait. I only want the lines. The essence of you is something I’m trying to avoid.’ She lifted her gaze from the paper and her pencil paused as if momentarily distracted. ‘I have a piece of tiger-eye the exact colour of your eyes,’ she said at length. ‘If I set it in a ring for you, would you wear it?’
He doubted it.
‘I was thinking of something like this.’ She turned to a fresh page in her sketchbook, set it on the table, and the picture of a ring began to take shape. The design was simple: a wide band with a squarish insert of polished stone. With a few strokes of her pencil she managed to make it look both elegant and bold.
Tristan shrugged.
‘Your enthusiasm overwhelms me,’ she muttered, picking up her wineglass. ‘I’ll make it for you anyway, as payment for coming opalhunting with me. I’m thinking white gold for the band. Platinum if I can get hold of it.’
‘Are you always this generous with people you hardly know?’
‘You give some, you get some.’
Tristan wanted some. Badly. And he didn’t know how long he could hold off before he reached out and simply took. ‘Erin—’
‘I know,’ she said breathlessly. ‘You know, maybe this portrait business isn’t such a good idea. Maybe I should go for a walk instead.’ She stood abruptly and reached for his plate.
‘Leave it.’
‘Oh, boy.’ She reached for her wine.
‘Refill?’ He reached for the bottle.
‘No!’ And then more calmly, ‘Thank you. I’m going to take that walk now. Then I’m going to come back and take a shower and go to bed. Alone.’
‘It’s a good plan.’ His voice was rough, strained, his control was close to non-existent. ‘But if you’re still here by the time I get these dishes to the sink, it’s not going to happen. You and me naked on the table will happen, and then maybe, maybe, we’ll make it to the shower. You know that, don’t you?’
She nodded. Swallowed hard. ‘I’m not quite sure I’m ready for that to happen.’
Neither was he. ‘Enjoy your walk.’ He stood up, reached for the dinner plates and took them to the counter. By the time he’d scraped the scraps into the bin she was gone.
What in hell was wrong with him? He never lost control when he was with a woman. Not ever. He hoped Erin’s walk was a long one. He hoped she had the quickest shower in history and that she went to bed directly afterwards, just as she’d said. He would stay up late, watch some TV. And then, when she was safely tucked away for the night, sound asleep, and he’d watched all there was to watch on the television, and read all there was to read in the newspaper, when his mind was foggy with fatigue and his body was aching with tiredness, maybe then he’d think about going to bed.
Chapter Four
TRISTAN was dreaming of the dockyards of Prague and row upon row of shipping containers. They were slick with sea spray and shrouded in mist that twisted and eddied around his feet as he walked towards that last unopened container. Cars; he was looking for stolen cars; the permit to search was in his partner’s pocket, and they were onto something. He could feel it in the air, see it in the eyes of passing dockyard workers.
Cars. Shiny, expensive, luxury cars, that was what they were looking for. The hour was late and he was tired, deathly tired, but there’d been something in Jago’s voice when he’d talked about this latest container load that no one wanted to pick up that had had him breaking deep cover and calling it in. Jago was frightened; something had gone badly wrong. And scum like Jago didn’t frighten easily.
‘Tell me why we’re doing this,’ said Cal when he’d collected him and hightailed it down to the yards. ‘Tell me why you just blew off months of undercover work on one lousy container load of stolen cars.’
He couldn’t say. He didn’t know. ‘Something’s wrong.’
‘Yeah, your judgement. Seriously, man. We nearly had the whole damn lot of them, the entire cartel.’
‘The big dogs bailed this morning. It’s time.’ It was p
ast time.
Death. He could smell it as they drew closer and it made his hair stand on end. ‘Has anyone checked the container?’ he asked the night watchman who padded alongside him, grim and wary.
‘Hell, no,’ said the man. ‘The men are spooked. You can see that for yourself.’
Not cars. Not just cars. He knew that as surely as he knew his own name, and all of a sudden he didn’t want to open up that container, didn’t want to know what was inside. ‘We should wait for backup.’
‘You going soft on me, old man?’ This from Cal.
Not soft. But gut instinct had kept him alive too many times for him to ignore it, and right now instinct was telling him to stay the hell away from that container. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘Hey, you’re the one who dragged me out of bed and down here.’ Cal reached the container and started sliding bars into their open position. Bars that had kept whatever was in that container in. The dockworkers of Prague had the right of it, but Cal couldn’t feel it. Cal who was young and fearless and hadn’t yet seen the things that Tristan had seen.
‘Cal! Wait!’
But Cal hadn’t waited. He’d thrown that door open and the smell had poured over them like a wave. Death. He should have called this in days ago, when the missing container had finally arrived. He’d known something was going down but he’d bided his time. Not just cars, no cars at all, just filth and mattresses and shapeless, nameless lumps and then he knew what this container had been trafficking and why the cartel had spooked when it hadn’t come in on time. His eyes watered, he couldn’t see for darkness, didn’t want to see. ‘Call the paramedics,’ he said as Cal stumbled back, white-faced and clumsy with his need to get away. ‘Some of them might still be alive.’
He should have called it in earlier. Three days ago, when the container had first hit the dock. He’d known something big had gone down, he just hadn’t known what. So he’d waited.
And waited.
Erin woke to the echo of a noise reverberating in her head, not entirely sure if she’d been dreaming or if a sound really had woken her. She lay in the little single bed in the unfamiliar motel room, hardly breathing, just waiting. Waiting for what?
