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

by Anne Oliver

  His current assignment was sorting out Dad’s finances and selling the house.

  Not as straightforward as he’d imagined. Pushing up slowly, he winced as stiff muscles protested. So Cleo was no longer in the flat. No, sir, she’d made herself quite at home in the house.

  Shaking off the niggling discomfort at living in such close quarters with the girl he’d wanted almost for ever, he moved to the window and looked out at the rainbow-coloured rose garden below. She had every right to be here. She’d nursed his father and presumably seen to the upkeep of the house and the well-tended grounds while Dad’s health had declined. Alone. He couldn’t very well ask her to leave straight away.

  He rubbed at the back of his neck. Perhaps she’d consider taking the flat again—rent-free of course. He could arrange for her to continue using the garage as a workshop until an alternative venue could be found.

  Guilt speared up and lodged like a sharp splinter in his chest. Hell, he didn’t even know whether she’d had to give up a job, if she sold any of the stuff she made, whether Dad had given her an allowance.

  Nor did he want his father’s wealth. Leastways not for himself. He’d put it towards the rebuilding efforts he’d been supporting overseas. As far as he could see, money came with a heap of its own problems, and he’d been doing fine on his own minus the complications.

  But he owed Cleo. One hell of a complication. Until he figured out the best way to repay that debt, he was stuck here in the danger zone, and this time there was no airlift out in sight.

  THREE

  Jack took his time washing the sweat of travel from his skin. The steam felt like a balm to his body, the warmth easing stiff muscles. He felt almost human again. Until he wiped the moisture from the mirror with his palm.

  He shook his head. ‘You’ve looked better,’ he muttered. Couldn’t do much for the eyes, but he reached for his razor and began scraping away a few days’ worth of beard.

  That task completed, he gingerly peeled off the dressing on his shoulder. He could’ve used some help but the thought of Cleo’s neat little hands anywhere near his flesh convinced him to deal with it himself. Not a pretty sight and the wound burned like a devil, but he cleaned and dressed it with one of the sterile packs from the hospital.

  Finally he pulled on jeans and an old black T-shirt that was soft against his bruised body, and ran a comb through his overlong hair. He grimaced at his reflection. He’d definitely looked better.

  He left his room and walked down the hall, his bare feet almost noiseless on the smooth parquetry floor. He noted the walls were a warm cream rather than the austere white they’d always been. The stairs and banister gleamed and a fresh lingering fragrance of lemon polish mingled with the smell of coffee—and was that pizza?—and the homey sounds of clunking dishes and breakfast radio.

  Two steps down, he stopped and stared at the statue at the base of the stairs. Spikes of metal speared and curled into sinuous curves, giving an impression of intertwined limbs, an unmistakable breast... How had he missed this piece of metallic erotica last night? One of Cleo’s pieces, obviously.

  ‘Now there’s a face I haven’t seen in a while.’

  Jack turned at the sound of Scott’s voice. ‘Scotty!’ His childhood buddy stood in the entry foyer, looking much smarter than the uni student he remembered, in a lightweight Armani suit and royal-blue tie. His liberal dousing of Calvin Klein wafted up the stairwell. Jack grinned as he descended. ‘Still as ugly as ever.’

  Scott grinned back. ‘Not as ugly as you.’ He crossed tiles in three strides and grasped both Jack’s hands.

  ‘Got to agree with you there.’ Relief sighed through Jack at the open and uncomplicated welcome. ‘So... what’s with the clothes?’

  ‘I’m on my way to a client.’

  ‘Ah, of course. Scott the lawyer now. Father and son team.’

  At the mention of family ties Scott paused, looking uncomfortable as he rocked back on the heels of his shiny black shoes. ‘Sorry about your father.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jack couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘How’s it feel to be back?’

  ‘I’ll let you know when my body catches up.’

  Scott gave Jack a thorough once-over. ‘You haven’t changed much. Perhaps a bit leaner and meaner.’ His eyes slid over Jack’s hair. ‘No scissors where you come from?’

  Jack shoved a hand through damp strands. ‘No time.’

  ‘Jeanne can trim it. Sis has her own salon now.’

  ‘Good for Jeanne.’ But Jack was super aware of Cleo moving about in the kitchen and didn’t want to be overheard. ‘What’s a hot-shot lawyer drive these days?’

  ‘Jeep Cherokee Sports.’

  ‘Let’s take a look.’ They wandered out the front door and down the path to the driveway where Scott’s car gleamed silver in the sun.

  Scott opened the car door, released the bonnet. Both men ostensibly studied the engine but Jack knew they had stuff to talk about. ‘Had it long?’ he asked.

  ‘Four months.’

  ‘I’ll have to road test it some time.’ Jack ran a hand over the bodywork. ‘You didn’t let on he was sick.’

  ‘I took over some of Dad’s clients when he had his heart attack; your father was one of them. He gave specific instructions about not trying to find you till it was over.’

  Jack almost smiled. Dad hadn’t filled Cleo in on that information. Jack could only presume his reason was to make him look like the heartless son. ‘So he never knew we kept contact?’

  ‘No. Nobody knew. Had to do some fast talking to our girl here. Told her I hired an investigator.’ Scott shook his head. ‘The Middle East, Jack. Every time I heard of a foreigner being kidnapped I thought of you.’

  Jack shuddered inwardly at the blurred memories of the field hospital, the airlift to Rome when he’d stabilised enough to be moved, then forced a casual grin. ‘Life on the edge.’ No way did he want to relive the past couple of weeks, not even with Scotty.

  ‘You make a habit of landing in hospital, then?’

  ‘Not since I was here.’ Again Jack’s mind spun back to his twenty-first birthday, but this time it was the dark recollection of his father’s fists.

  ‘You should’ve pressed charges, Jack. Two broken ribs and multiple bruises. It wasn’t the first time.’

  ‘But it was the last.’ He shrugged to cover the emotional pain that still stabbed through him at the memories. ‘Forget it, it’s in the past. Fill me in on Cleo.’ At Jack’s own request they’d never discussed her while he’d been away. He’d mistakenly thought it would distance her from his mind, from his heart. Wrong.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Scott said. ‘We’ve gotten close over the years.’

  Jack’s gut cramped at the unwelcome image that popped into his head. ‘How close?’

  Scott grinned. ‘Told her you’d do the brotherly protection bit. We’re friends, that’s all.’

  Jack shoved his hands behind his head and linked his fingers to ease the tension between his shoulder blades. ‘You think she and Sam...?’

  Scott laughed. ‘After That Night? Hell, no.’

  Jack imagined punching a triumphant fist in the air but remained outwardly calm. ‘I think she hung around those types just to rile me.’

  ‘She succeeded. You got into more than one fight on her account.’

  ‘For all the good it did. She was a messed-up kid.’

  Scott lowered the bonnet with a mechanical click and pierced Jack with a look that had Jack’s outward calm ruffling at the edges. ‘She’s not a kid any more.’

  Too right she wasn’t, and it scared the living daylights out of Jack. ‘I’ve already noticed she’s more than capable of looking out for herself.’

  ‘Are you guys coming in for breakfast or what?’ Cleo cal
led from the open doorway.

  ‘Coming,’ Scott called back and clapped Jack on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go eat.’

  When Jack entered the familiar sunny yellow kitchen Cleo was unloading the dishwasher. She wore hip-hugging jeans with rainbow pockets and a shrunken violet vest-top that left a tantalising strip of midriff bare. The top stretched over her breasts surely tighter than would be comfortable. Her puckered nipples looked as if they needed rescuing.

  He imagined putting his tongue in the curve of her waist, then working his way up, sliding his fingers under that snug fabric to ease her distress—and give him access to all that smooth skin and those two perky little buds.

  She stopped in mid-stoop when she saw him looking. He caught her eyes, and for a brief second he thought he saw a flash of something intimate, then... nothing.

  ‘Help yourself,’ she said, closing the dishwasher.

  He drew in a deep breath. Was it the smell of food or the sight of woman that had his juices flowing, his mouth watering? A lack of both had sharpened his senses and he aimed for the nearest chair and collapsed onto it.

  He was right about the smell—it was pizza, along with mini quiches, toasted sandwiches and half a soggy pavlova loaded with strawberries and cream.

  Scott seemed to know his way around their breakfast table and was already pouring coffee into mugs. ‘You going to give Jeanne a try?’

  ‘Why not?’ Jack said, wondering if his taste buds could cope with pepperoni pizza this early in the morning on an empty stomach.

  Scott pulled out his mobile phone.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Cleo, and sat down. Her arm, sprinkled with tiny gold hairs and smelling like jasmine, passed in front of Jack and hovered under his nose as she selected a toasted Vegemite sandwich. She cast a glance over his hair. ‘Though it does give you a certain untamed appeal. Some women might find that attractive.’

  She’d admired that untamed look six years ago, he remembered, though feral might be a more apt word for the guys she’d mixed with. It soured his mood and did nothing for his appetite. ‘So you go for what—slick and sophisticated nowadays?’ he said.

  She snatched her hand back. ‘Isn’t that your preference?’

  He felt the sharp edge to her voice like a knife between his ribs and paused, pizza poised halfway to his lips. Her expression wasn’t any softer than her tone. Ignoring both, he bit off a mouthful and chewed, but the flavour had lost its spice.

  What kind of man did she go for now? He’d resigned himself to the fact that she’d have had men in her life. But seeing the stunning woman she’d matured into, sharing the same air and breathing her scent... The thought of any man touching her peachy skin was an exercise in torture. And something he’d have to get used to fast.

  ‘We weren’t discussing me,’ he said at last. ‘Hopefully you’ve gotten some wisdom along with your maturity.’ Now he was really starting to sound like a big brother.

  ‘Your appointment’s for ten,’ Scott said, setting the phone down. ‘Jeanne’s looking forward to seeing you again.’

  ‘Thanks, Scotty.’

  ‘So, Jack.’ Cleo sliced herself a generous serving of pavlova. ‘Tell us about yourself. Rome, wasn’t it? I think I read something about it in some magazine.’ She lifted one shoulder, took a gulp of coffee. ‘Photographing all those Italian beauties. Must be a hard life.’

  ‘I—’

  Scott’s mobile buzzed. Scott spoke briefly, disconnected. ‘Those Italian beauties will have to wait. I’ve got to run.’ Rising, he drained his coffee. ‘Cleo, can you take Jack to the mall later?’

  She answered with a hesitant, ‘Okay.’

  Jack understood her reluctance and was tempted to cancel the whole business and go back to bed. Or perhaps she had someone else she wanted to be with today. ‘I can find my own way,’ he said, eyeing her over his mug. ‘If you’re expected elsewhere...’

  He was dismissed with a curt, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, you’re in no shape to drive. I’m taking you and that’s that.’ She shrugged as she licked cream from her fingers. ‘I’ve nothing better to do.’

  But as Jack watched Cleo clear and stack plates her quick and edgy movements let him know she’d agreed only as a favour to Scott. She still had that chip on her shoulder, though she’d smoothed the edges some. And he couldn’t help thinking what a nice shoulder it was.

  To distract himself from the sight of that trim body, he directed his gaze through the glassed doors that opened onto the patio, and beyond, to the bottom of the garden. ‘The old wattle tree’s still there.’ Dense with foliage, it was still a perfect spot for a cubby or a cuddle...

  ‘Where you got a little too friendly with a certain Sally Edwards,’ Cleo reminded him.

  ‘Thanks to you, one of my less memorable moments.’ Unbeknown to him, Cleo had watched the proceedings from above, and just when things had been getting interesting she’d decked him with her shoe. Unfortunately Sally hadn’t seen the humour in the situation.

  Cleo turned to look at him. ‘Remember that time I climbed higher than you?’

  ‘An unfair contest—the branches didn’t support my weight.’

  ‘Ah, but you were taller. Bet you couldn’t do it now.’ Her voice held a definite sneer.

  Jack recognised the old challenge, and met her eyes. ‘That sounds suspiciously like a dare.’

  She tossed out a laugh as she filled the sink. ‘Hardly, for someone in your condition.’

  But the triumph in her eyes was enough. ‘You’re on, but I’ve got something better.’ And something a man recovering from concussion and assorted wounds probably shouldn’t attempt, but pride was at stake here.

  ‘Like what?’ He saw the flicker of alarm in her eyes as he strode to the glass doors, slid them open. ‘Coming?’

  ‘Jack, wait.’ His strides took him to the front of the house while Cleo sputtered behind him. ‘Whatever you’re planning, don’t.’

  Jack allowed himself a rare moment of light-headed amusement as he put one bare foot on the first rung and gauged his ascent up the trellis to his window while Cleo tugged at his arm, her nails pressing into his flesh. He liked the way she clung to him a little too much.

  Definitely light-headed. Temporary insanity even. That was what he told himself as he planted a quick hard kiss on her parted mouth and swung up. ‘If I fall, I want my ashes scattered on—’

  ‘Shut up and get down or I’m going to kill you myself.’

  His own lips tingling from the unexpectedly lush heat of Cleo’s mouth, he gritted his teeth, wincing as pain sang through his body. ‘Like riding a bike,’ he muttered, picking his way through a forest of ivy. Virtually one-handed was only a minor handicap. He was fitter at this point in his life than he’d ever been.

  But his head was spinning and he was sweating with a sudden dose of something he refused to consider as the shakes when he hauled himself through the window. Still, he managed a wave at a white-lipped Cleo below.

  Then he flopped onto his back on the floor and closed his eyes. The room tilted. His shoulder screamed. The throbbing in his temple grew to epic proportions. Don’t pass out, for God’s sake.

  But he didn’t have time to enjoy his pain in solitude because in the next moment Cleo burst through his bedroom door and was bending over him, wild-eyed and spitting mad.

  ‘You idiot!’

  He would have smiled if he’d had the energy—it had been a long time since anyone had shown emotion of any kind towards him. He closed his eyes. ‘Hi, Goldilocks. You made good time.’

  ‘Shut up, Jack.’

  Her voice was breathy, impatient. Like an aroused woman. Cool fingers slid his T-shirt up his chest, working gently over and along every tender rib. One, two, three...

  His breath stalled in his lungs. It was too easy to imagine those fingers sliding
lower, dipping beneath the waistband of his jeans. His suddenly very tight jeans. He might hurt more than he’d admit, but he wasn’t dead. Yet.

  ‘Piece of cake,’ he told her, pushing up, mostly to cover the incriminating evidence in his lap. The eyes that met his were stormy pools of blue. The light fragrance wafting from her skin made his head spin again for a different reason entirely. ‘I used to do it regularly. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I wouldn’t waste my time.’ She pushed away the hand he’d automatically lifted to her cheek and stood, fisting her hands against her sides. ‘We leave for the mall at nine forty-five. Don’t be late.’

  ‘I’ll be ready.’

  Not one of your more intelligent ideas, Jack, he thought, when he was alone again. Trouble was he’d quickly rediscovered that, where Cleo was concerned, emotion rode roughshod over sense.

  Which didn’t bode well for however long it took to settle Cleo in a place of her own, wrap things up and be gone.

  * * *

  Under an array of brilliant down-light, Hair’s Jeanne was bustling with the sounds of scissors and dryers, the smells of shampoos and lotions.

  An attractive brunette like her brother, Jeanne smiled from a distance while she put the finishing touches to a client’s hair. But Cleo noted Jeanne’s eyes were all for Jack this morning. And why not? The woman was alive, wasn’t she?

  Knowing it would be rude to take the single, safer chair on the opposite wall when there was a space beside him—even if it was a very small space—Cleo sat on his right.

  Her arm was hard up against Jack’s. Their jeans-clad thighs brushed. Obviously Jack didn’t experience the same jolt that sent heat spiralling through her system. With a casual ease she envied, he picked up a periodical and began flicking through it.

  It was impossible not to see his reflection in the salon mirrors. His eyes were on his magazine and all she could see were the long, dark lashes. And the dimple. And that mouth. He could have been in front of the camera instead of behind. She scowled. That might make him poster-boy material, but it didn’t make him a better person.

  So why did she feel so weak, so...hot? And what was she going to do about it?