Harlequin KISS November 2014 Box Set: Behind Closed Doors...Fired by Her FlingWho's Calling the Shots?Nine Month Countdown

by Anne Oliver

  ‘Never better,’ he said, gripping his bag in one white-knuckled fist. ‘Give me fifteen minutes.’ The corner of his mouth tipped up in a semblance of that cocky grin that had always set her teenage heart racing.

  She’d vowed never again to let that mouth get to her, but her body wasn’t paying attention. There was an industrial-strength blender in her stomach whipping up a deadly cocktail of unwanted emotions, forcing her to press a surreptitious fist against her middle.

  She drew in a slow, deep breath. To her relief he turned on his heel and walked—make that sauntered—towards the hall as if the last six years hadn’t happened.

  Some things never changed. And there was still enough of the old Jack to have her traitorous system humming. Against her will, her eyes followed his firmly muscled backside as he disappeared through the doorway.

  She curbed the swift desire to scream something obscene at him and screwed her eyes shut. She didn’t need him in her life. Not now, not ever. She was going to focus on herself for a change, her wants, her needs. Forget Jack.

  But her eyes flew open at the sound of a heavy thump followed by a short, sharp word, and her breath caught in her throat. Easy to say when the man was stumbling up the stairs like a drunk.

  Mumbling an ‘excuse me a moment’ to anyone within earshot, she hurried into the hall and up the stairs. She stopped at the top and huffed out a breath. Back a few minutes and already he had her running after him. Again.

  When she reached his door he was standing at the window, hands braced on the sill, taking deep breaths. She was three steps into the room before she could think that this was a very bad move. It hit her immediately. His scent, his proximity. The intimacy.

  Back up. Now. But her feet remained stapled to the floor, eyes glued to his long, tanned fingers as he picked up her Champlevé enamel and bronze sculpture from the little bureau beneath the window.

  ‘Did you make this?’

  She bit her lip. He had his back to her, but he’d known she was there. He always knew. ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘I’ve got my own workshop in the garage.’

  ‘Impressive.’ He set it down, turned around to check out the room.

  His colour had improved, but he still had that greenish tinge. She felt a little faint herself. He was sucking up all the oxygen, taking up all the space. Even with the breeze and the fragrance of frangipani and wattle outside, she wondered if she was going to be the one passing out.

  ‘New quilt,’ he said.

  Her eyes flicked to the burgundy and green patchwork, then away. She did not want to look at that bed. ‘I sewed it at Gerry’s bedside,’ she said, focusing on the cool blank wall dead ahead and reminding herself Jack hadn’t been around to see his dad die. ‘It helped pass the time.’

  The sudden image of Jack’s naked body sliding over those patches she’d sewn burst like a fireball behind her eyes. All that hot, tanned skin rubbing against where her fingers had been... Oh, Good God.

  Twisting those fingers together, she spun a half-circle, only to come face to face with the object of her steamy imaginings.

  While she stared in helpless fascination, Jack dragged off his tie, tossed it on the bed and unbuttoned a cuff. More hot, tanned skin. ‘The old house has seen a few changes,’ he remarked.

  No thanks to him, she reminded herself again. ‘You’ve been gone six years, Jack. You ran off without a word.’

  The brief, mildly civilised interlude disintegrated into a deafening silence. Jack’s fingers, already working the second cuff, paused. ‘First off, I did not run.’ A muscle clenched in his jaw. ‘Second, it was time to leave.’

  His eyes fused with hers and she knew they were both remembering... She knew what he meant even if she didn’t understand why he’d left. ‘But without saying goodbye?’ They’d shared the shock and grief of losing a parent who’d never looked back—he knew how deeply that had hurt. He owed her. ‘We deserved that much, your father at the very least.’

  ‘Dad?’ Something like anger or regret or both flashed in his eyes as he yanked open the top button of his shirt. ‘He said what he had to say.’

  She gulped, her eyes riveted to the glint of gold chain at his neck. The crudely shaped medallion nestling in that tempting V of chest had been one of her first attempts in metal-working class in high school.

  He still wore it. Something fluttered at her heart, but she fought it down. ‘He was your father, Jack. You treated him less than a stranger.’

  ‘You more than made up for it.’

  The sharp edge to his voice stung. Did he resent her for that?

  ‘Speaking of parents,’ he continued in a more reasonable tone, ‘I didn’t see your mum downstairs.’

  Relieved at the switch in topics, Cleo nodded. ‘She met someone through work and got married again.’

  ‘Good for her.’ He undid his belt, dropped it on the bed with his tie. ‘She deserves some happiness.’

  ‘I agree. They went to New Zealand to meet his family and stayed. She sent her condolences. By the way, I moved out of the flat to be nearer to Gerry since Mum’s no longer around.’ And neither were you.

  His brows shot up. ‘You cared for him yourself? Here?’

  ‘Of course. When he wasn’t having chemo.’

  ‘Did you have help?’ One hand shot up and rubbed at the back of his neck, the way she remembered he did when he was unsure of something. ‘For God’s sake tell me you didn’t have to go through his...’

  The ‘death’ word hung unspoken between them. ‘I did have a carer help out at the end.’ She wanted to reach out, but he deserved to suffer as she had. ‘I did what I had to do. Death’s part of being human.’

  He nodded, still rubbing his neck. ‘Big responsibility to take on.’

  As if he would know about responsibility. ‘Not at all. He was my father in all the ways that count.’

  ‘The Dastardly Duo didn’t know what they were throwing away when they left you behind.’

  ‘That was fifteen years ago. I’m over it.’ In a familiar but now almost unconscious reaction, she folded defensive arms across her breasts. Despite her plea to the contrary, she’d never been able to come to grips with her own father and Jack’s mother running off together.

  ‘Their loss, Goldilocks.’ His voice mellowed, a warm, aged-whisky kind of sound that seemed to flow over her. She could almost feel her bones melting under his temperature-elevating gaze. She didn’t even care that he’d used her old nickname.

  Then he laid a hand on her shoulder, a move obviously neither of them had expected because she felt his fingers tense and heard her own soft inhalation. His hand moved to her neck, the rough edge of his fingertip catching on the silky fabric of her dress. Heat from his hard palm warmed the flesh of her exposed shoulder.

  What was she thinking, letting him touch her as if he cared, as if he were absorbing the feel of her skin against his, searching her eyes for her deepest, darkest secrets? Simple. She wasn’t thinking. Oh, my, but she was feeling. Her senses were so acutely tuned she swore she heard the air sigh. Or perhaps it was her. Or him.

  It would be too easy to imagine that touch was more than what she knew it must mean: brotherly support. But his hand slid down, closed around her upper arm. Then both hands, both arms. Not brotherly at all.

  A thunk downstairs followed by loud male laughter broke the sensual spell that had settled around them. Jack dropped his hands as if he’d touched molten metal. ‘You’ve still got guests.’

  The sudden loss of contact was a cold dash of reality. ‘Correction—we’ve still got guests.’ Rubbing her arms where the imprint of his hands still tingled, she said, ‘This is your home, Jack, whether you like it or not, and those people downstairs came to say goodbye to your father.’

  ‘With the exception of Ben, I didn’t recognise a soul down there. Whe
re’s Jeanne? And Scotty said he’d be here.’

  ‘Jeanne left early and Scott’s performing a duty you should be doing. He’s taking Moira home. Your second cousin once removed,’ she reminded him, when he looked at her blankly.

  ‘Ah, the bird lady. The one who talks like her galahs. Thank you, Scotty,’ he murmured with a visible shudder.

  She shook her head. ‘I know more about your relatives than you do.’ And that, she thought, said a lot about Jack’s attitude towards family.

  ‘You always did. Okay, I’ll be down in ten minutes. Right now I’ve got a date with a hot shower.’

  He yanked his shirt-tails out of his trousers and began undoing the rest of his buttons. The sight of that tempting strip of masculine skin had her stomach jigging in anticipation. What would happen if she touched him now, there? With her hands, her lips. With her tongue.

  Reality check. Jack was off limits, for her own protection, and that included the scenery. She jerked her eyes back to his.

  ‘So...if you’ll excuse me?’ Jack had paused, hands on the open sides of his shirt.

  ‘Right.’ Turning her back on him, she steeled her mind to blank out all thoughts involving skin and hands and heat and said, ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’

  * * *

  The moment the last guest departed, Cleo kicked off her shoes before clearing up while she waited for Scott. He was coming back to check on her before heading home. Ben Hargreaves’ son, Scott, and Jack might be best mates from high school, but Scott had been there for her from day one. Which made him the number-one hero in her books.

  Forty-five minutes later she swung around as Scott’s hands settled on her shoulders. She smiled. ‘Hi.’ This was more like it. No awkward silences, no shivering nerves getting in the way.

  ‘Sorry I took so long. Moira wanted to show me the aviary. I’m not sure it’s legal—all those cockatoos.’

  ‘Galahs. She’s lonely. Thanks for taking her home.’ Cleo patted his cheek. ‘Jack’s back.’ She heard the breathless sound of her own voice. To compensate, she moved briskly to the bench and busied herself covering leftovers with foil.

  ‘Jack?’ His voice brightened. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Upstairs, said he was going to take a shower.’ She glanced at the ceiling. ‘That was more than an hour ago.’ The thread of anxiety that had wound its way through her system tightened. She’d managed to ignore it until now, but, ‘Perhaps I should go see if—’

  ‘He’ll show when he’s ready—or not. You know Jack.’

  She hesitated. ‘You’re right. It’s just that...’

  Scott leaned forward, cupped her chin in his hands. Concern darkened his pale grey eyes, turning them pewter. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?’ But she pulled away, irritated to find her chest tight.

  ‘Because you’ve always been hung up on him. Seeing him again is bound to be a bit of a jolt after all this time.’

  Was it so obvious to everyone but Jack? With a harsh metallic swoosh she ripped more foil from the roll. ‘Hung up on him? Is that what you think? You’re wrong.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yes.’ On a crazy impulse, she tossed the foil roll on the bench and grabbed his shirt front. ‘Kiss me, Scott. Really kiss me and I’ll prove it to you.’

  ‘Whoa, there.’ He smiled and ran a thumb over her lips, presumably to take the sting out of his rejection. ‘That’s pure emotion talking.’

  Of course it was. Jack and emotion went hand in hand. Her cheeks hot, she stepped back, picked up a platter of mini quiches and took them to the fridge. ‘I’m sorry. That was stupid.’

  ‘Forget it.’ His smile widened fractionally. ‘Another reason is self-preservation. I bet Jack’s still protective of his little sister.’

  ‘I’m not his sister.’ She slammed the fridge door as irritation niggled through her. ‘And I’m not so little any more.’

  ‘Hey. Fine, sorry.’ He raised his palms. ‘You’re not his sister. And you’ve got a thing for him.’

  Thing. As in an itch? She shook her head. ‘If only it were that simple.’

  ‘The last time you saw him you were a kid. That would have made a relationship between you impossible—from Jack’s point of view, at least. Now it’s different and you don’t know how to deal with it.’

  ‘Is that why you never put the moves on me? Because you knew?’ Way to go, Cleo—put Scott in a no-win situation. ‘Sorry, personal question. Forget I said that.’

  He nodded. ‘Forgotten.’ He picked up his keys, jingled them. ‘You still on for tomorrow night?’

  ‘On?’

  ‘As in basketball.’

  ‘Oh.’ She pasted on a smile. ‘Right.’

  ‘We’re playing the bottom team; it should be a walkover. I’ll let myself out.’ But he didn’t give her his customary kiss goodbye. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Bye.’ She leaned one burning cheek against the smooth fridge until the sound of Scott’s car faded. Cricket song filtered through the open window. She heard a dog bark against the background of traffic, felt the cool dampness of evening on her heated skin.

  Only an idiot would yearn half a lifetime for a playboy like Jack over a steady, dependable guy like Scott. A sigh slid from her lips. Scott had been there for her when Gerry’s time had come. Jack was his son; where had he been?

  If the clipping at the bottom of her underwear drawer was any indication, he’d been living the high life in Italy. She knew the words by heart. ‘And in Milan, Mr Jack Devlin, up-and-coming fashion photographer, escorting Ms Liana Kumova, a stunning, new...’

  Cleo snorted, unsure who she was more disgusted with—Jack or herself for allowing it to still hurt.

  What else had Mr Jack Model-a-Minute done in the past six years?

  And how long would he stay this time?

  TWO

  Time. Cleo glanced at the digital numbers on the microwave. Jack hadn’t made that promised appearance downstairs. The one person who might have understood her grief, who might have shared it, simply didn’t care.

  Pushing away from the fridge, she headed for the stairs. Forget that the earth still moved when she looked at him, that the brush of a fingertip over her skin had sent shock waves rippling through every pulse-point in her body. A normal physical response to an attractive male.

  But this attractive male wasn’t the man she wanted him to be. Not inside, where it counted. She didn’t want him on those terms. You keep telling yourself that, Cleo. Maybe one day you’ll even believe it.

  And while she waited for that little miracle to happen, she intended letting him in on a few home truths. Hers.

  Jack’s door was ajar, the room dark. The last vestige of dusk slid through the open drapes, outlining a motionless form sprawled over the lower half of the bed.

  She slapped a palm on the door, swinging it wide. ‘Jack, wake up. I want to talk to you.’

  No answer.

  From the doorway she could hear his steady breathing. Her own breath caught as the sound of that gentle rumble skated down her spine and the backs of her legs. God help her, she should leave. Now. Before he woke and found her watching him like some star-struck teenager. ‘Jack...’

  When he still didn’t stir, she slipped into the room. She had to make a conscious effort to put one foot in front of the other as she crossed the carpet to switch on the bedside lamp. She adjusted it to its dimmest setting.

  It looked as if he’d fallen backwards onto the quilt and hadn’t budged since. His open shirt revealed a patina of sun-bronzed skin sprinkled with cinnamon hair that gleamed gold in the low light. A metal-smith’s divine inspiration—she could almost feel the flow of molten metal beneath her fingers. It took all her will-power to keep her hands at her sides.

  His chain had slipped
to the side, the medallion nestled between neck and shoulder. But she frowned at the ugly bruise blooming on the left side of his chest. Then she noticed the bulky surgical dressing over his shoulder just visible beneath his shirt.

  ‘What have you done to yourself this time, Jack?’

  He wore bruises like badges, she remembered, always getting into fights, more than likely over some girl or other. This was probably no exception.

  She brushed his unruly hair from his forehead. His brow was cool and smooth—no fever—and she had no business touching him, except that she’d always been a sucker when Jack was hurt.

  More fool her.

  But worry worked its way through the euphoric haze that seemed to have enveloped her and she gently shook his uninjured shoulder. ‘Jack?’

  He jerked, eyes suddenly wide and glassy and unfocused. ‘Huh?’

  ‘It’s Cleo, Jack.’ His eyelids slipped to half-mast at the sound of her voice, those dark bedroom eyes barely visible through spiky lashes. She had the weirdest sensation of falling. ‘Are you okay?’ Leaning closer, she could smell the warm, sleepy scent of his skin. ‘Do you need anything?’ Like me.

  For a heart-stopping instant she thought she must have spoken those two reckless words aloud when he murmured, ‘Cleo...’ then his eyes closed on the word ‘...Home...’

  She sighed. Not a chance—the words ‘Cleo’ and ‘home’ did not equate in Jack’s vocabulary. Leastways, not in this lifetime.

  Deliberately ignoring the unsnapped waistband of his trousers, she detoured to the foot of the bed, tugged off his shoes, then peeled off his socks, sucking in a breath as her fingers came into contact with warm, bony skin.

  His bare feet stuck out over the edge of the mattress. Long, narrow feet... God, even his toes were sexy; in a knobbly kind of way. She shook her head in exasperation. Only Jack Devlin could have sexy toes.