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

by Anne Oliver

  Oh, boy. Her breath backed up in her lungs. He’d gotten rid of the T-shirt. Naked skin. Man skin. Gleaming rich bronze, like polished wood. Heat rolled off him in waves that seemed to soak into her own skin, making her feel hot and shivery at the same time.

  ‘I get the impression you’re going to enjoy this.’

  His voice held a hint of a smile, and she dragged her eyes to his. There was humour there, and warmth, and for a few seconds she basked in the glory before the ugly sight of his wounds took precedence.

  Bruising marred the gorgeous skin, and beneath the shoulder bandage she saw the bright seep of fresh blood. Patches had dried and stuck nastily to his flesh and she winced. ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Cleo?’ The sharp edge to his voice broke her concentration. ‘You sure you’re up to this?’

  No, she wasn’t sure at all, but not for the reasons he thought. The sight of blood didn’t distress her; the fact that this was Jack’s blood, on Jack’s chest, did.

  She shrugged to hide her distress. ‘What’s the big deal?’ Biting her lip, she eased away the blood-stiff dressing, and felt him tense when her fingers skimmed over his skin. ‘Sorry.’

  He hissed out a breath between his teeth, then grinned. Sort of. ‘There’s a fine line between pleasure and pain.’

  ‘Is that so?’ she murmured, chewing her bottom lip some more as she tugged the last corner of the pad from his flesh.

  Her breath stalled; she couldn’t seem to drag her eyes away from the small, neatly stitched wound and surrounding bruise. ‘Is...that...what...I...think...it...is?’

  He looked down at the wound then up at her. ‘Depends. What do you think it is?’

  ‘You were shot?’ Her whole body went weak. A ball of ice formed in her chest. A little lower, further to the right, he’d never have come home. She glared at him. ‘And what the hell were you doing to get yourself shot?’ she snapped, her voice rising a notch. ‘A jealous husband?’ She raised her hand. ‘Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.’

  She busied herself by cleaning off the dried blood with a cloth dipped in antiseptic. ‘It seems to have stopped bleeding.’ Her clipped voice betrayed none of the emotions running through her at the thought of losing him for ever.

  Yet hadn’t she accepted that until yesterday? She shook her head. Not this way. Not dead.

  She unsealed a sterile patch, cut two lengths of adhesive tape. ‘This’ll have to do.’ His breath was warm on her hand as she worked. ‘It should do the job. For now.’

  ‘Cleo, look at me.’ He tilted her chin up until her eyes met his. There were tiny flecks of gold in his irises. She’d never noticed that before. Then again, she’d never been this close, this intimate, for this long, before. ‘No jealous husband.’

  ‘Caught between two lovers?’ Why was she taunting him? She’d already told him she didn’t want to hear.

  ‘You’ve always had a poor opinion of me,’ he said tersely. ‘I have not, nor do I intend, to juggle two women at once.’ He pinched her chin before dropping his hand, and his eyes hardened. ‘One’s more than enough.’

  She stepped back, heart pounding, mouth dry as jealousy stabbed at her. Who was she—The One that was enough for Jack Devlin? ‘Whatever you say.’ She busied her hands and eyes repacking the first aid box. ‘Go put a clean shirt on; I’ll soak this one.’

  ‘Forget the shirt, and the box.’ His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Hard. She could feel the tension in his fingers, could hear it in his voice, and knew she’d see it in his eyes, but she didn’t look.

  Instead she stared at her hands, small and fragile-looking against his work-rough ones. Surprising for a photographer, she thought, in some faraway part of her mind.

  ‘You know what really ticks me off?’ He said it quietly but Cleo heard the ice-tipped steel lance through it. ‘When people closest to me don’t accept what I say, don’t accept me. Dad never did and that’s the...’ Abruptly he snapped his jaw shut, released her wrist. She saw the shattered look in his eyes before he turned away.

  Perhaps he had cared about his father, but something had happened between them that had hurt Jack deeply. Whatever it was he didn’t want to show it. Nor did he want to discuss it.

  Bright, shiny grief twisted inside her. I want to accept you. You don’t know how much. Instinctively she stepped back, away from his height and the proximity of that naked chest with its badges of pain.

  Through a haze that verged on tears she watched him ball the cloth and walk to the door, the movement as tight and controlled as his face as he turned to look at her for one long, tense moment. And then he was gone.

  * * *

  The following morning Cleo faced Scott and a stony-faced Jack across a pile of legal documents on the rosewood dining table. She wondered if Jack felt an ounce of the grief that consumed her. It certainly didn’t look like it, but she didn’t know with Jack any more. Scott didn’t look much better; she could have sworn he was nervous.

  Scott’s jaw tightened, his fingers tense as he shuffled the documents. ‘In your absence, Jack, Gerry named you and me co-executors of his will.’

  Jack leaned back in his chair as if distancing himself and waved a hand. ‘Leave the fine print for now and give us the layman’s version, Scotty.’

  ‘He wanted me to read this before the will.’ Scott looked at Jack as he unfolded a single handwritten page. ‘“I have to believe that you, Jack, have taken pity on a dying man, forgiven him and come home.”’

  Cleo saw Jack’s mouth tighten infinitesimally. Enough to know he wasn’t as immune to the grief as he’d have her believe. It triggered an echo in her body, a mix of pain and sympathy. She bit her lip and willed herself not to cry. But tears lurked nonetheless.

  ‘Cleo?’ Scott leaned across the table and touched her elbow. ‘You all right?’

  She nodded, thankful it wasn’t Jack’s hand or she was sure she’d fall apart—from hate, love, anger or grief, she hadn’t a clue at this moment.

  ‘Okay.’ Scott straightened, eyeing them both in turn. ‘Gerry left a substantial estate. Very substantial.’ He tabled the documents, then drew a breath. ‘Cleo, you are the sole beneficiary of Gerry’s will. His bank accounts, stocks and shares, the house and surrounding property.’

  Cleo swallowed as her throat closed over. It took a moment to comprehend Scott’s words, another to absorb the implications. ‘Everything?’ Her voice cracked on the word. ‘The house and all his money...to me?’ She rubbed the heel of her hand over her chest. It felt too tight, too full. Gerry, how could you do this? To her. To Jack.

  Almost afraid of what she’d see, she lifted her gaze to Gerry’s rightful heir. If Jack was disappointed or angry, he didn’t show it. In fact, she saw nothing in his dark eyes. And that was the most worrying of all. ‘This isn’t right, Jack.’ She had to work at keeping the tremor out of her voice. ‘I know it; you know it.’ She pushed the tabled documents firmly towards him. ‘It’s your family, your inheritance.’

  He shook his head. His eyes still gave nothing away. ‘Family’s not only about blood, as you’ve demonstrated so well over the past couple of years.’ Another man might have sounded bitter. Not Jack. ‘It’s about caring and compassion and giving. You deserve it.’

  Then he flicked the documents as if they were last week’s junk mail and the torment she saw beneath that one careless action wrenched at her heart. ‘This saves me the hassle of putting the house up for sale. As soon as we’ve dispensed with the legalities, I’ll be gone.’

  The cold simplicity of his words slid like ice through her veins. Cleo twisted her hands together beneath the table. If he left mad, hurt, humiliated, it would never be right between them. She had to do something, but what? Nothing could alter the fact that his father had left his inheritance to her.

  Scott’s eyes softened with sympathy for his friend as his fin
gers slid back and forth over the papers. No wonder the poor guy looked as if he’d rather be somewhere else. ‘Jack,’ he said. ‘Probate could take up to four weeks.’

  When Jack exploded out of his chair, Cleo jolted and looked up sharply. His back was rod-stiff as he strode to the window and she had to stop herself from going to him.

  She’d wanted him to help her sort out the legal issues his father’s death had left, and God knew he owed her for all those years away. When it was finished, she’d told herself she wanted him gone. No reminders, no pain.

  But not this way. Never this way.

  She pushed up on wobbly legs. ‘I can take care of myself, Jack, but I don’t want you leaving with this between us.’

  When he didn’t reply, she dug down for strength and walked up behind him. His scent, familiar, clean and woodsy, surrounded her. She tapped him on an unyielding shoulder. ‘I dare you to stay, Jack Devlin.’

  Jack winced. He could feel Cleo’s eyes like twin lasers on the back of his head. That compact, curvy body lined up behind him. Too close, too hot, too...Cleo. Stay a month? Out of the question. Hell, staying a day was a day too long. ‘You win this one, Goldilocks.’

  ‘Win? This isn’t about winning, Jack. It’s about having the courage to work with me and make it right. Not a dare, then—I’m asking you to stay. To help.’

  The quiet sincerity in her voice tugged at his heart. A man could be tempted by that voice, by that woman’s scent wafting over his shoulder.

  But was that all an act? The splinter of thought struck out of nowhere and festered instantly in his mind. Had Cleo known about the will all along? The more Jack thought about it, the more credible it seemed that she and his father had cooked it up between them. Their relationship had changed to more than father-daughter over the past six years, and Jack was the one on the outside.

  Fury erupted like molten poison through his veins. He closed his hands into fists and forced himself to turn and look at her. Had his father’s cruel hands—the ones that had broken his ribs—stroked that smooth female flesh?

  Was Jack the only one here who didn’t know?

  Jaw tightening at the sight of her innocent-looking face, he fought back the anger, the bitterness. ‘Just think, in a matter of weeks you can play lady of the manor.’

  Her face paled, those beautiful blue eyes widened. Then they narrowed and her whole body tensed. She drew a breath and said, ‘Now wait just a minute. I’m confused.’

  He shook his head to clear it, couldn’t stop the sneer that curled his lip. ‘That makes two of us.’

  ‘You’ve made it plain all along you didn’t want anything to do with Gerry, and now you act as if I tricked him into leaving me the house.’

  ‘Did you?’ The words were out before he could censor them.

  She reared back as if he’d slapped her. ‘You’d even ask that?’ Her eyes sprang with moisture, but she swiped at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. ‘How could you? How dare you? I’ll sell the house. You can have the money or I’ll give it to charity; either way it doesn’t matter. Money’s never mattered to me.’

  Her anger only fuelled his own. Questions and doubts hammered in his head. His vision greyed and that throb in his skull was back. ‘Unfortunately that’s not an option at the moment.’ And she’d know it. ‘If you need to contact me I’ll be down the road at the Sunset Motel.’

  Swinging away, he made it through the door and managed to point himself in the direction of the stairs.

  ‘Time out, Jack.’

  He slowed in the hallway at the sound of Scott’s voice but didn’t stop. ‘Not now.’

  He heard Scott slide the dining-room doors shut. ‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It’s a tough break, but you have responsibilities. There’s documentation to deal with. You need to be here.’

  Jack swung to Scott and met his direct gaze head-on. ‘You’re co-executor, and the lawyer. You’ll manage.’

  ‘What about personal effects?’ Scott waved a hand, his frown deepening. ‘And the study’s full of papers that need going through. Are you going to leave all that to Cleo?’

  Too full of anger—and, dammit, pride—to stand still, Jack paced the hall. Not only had his father denied Jack his inheritance, he’d had the gall to rub his nose in it.

  He thought of the school he’d been helping to rebuild before he was shot, the new wells they’d begun to sink. Fresh water and education where it was so desperately needed. That money would have helped.

  The old man was counting on Jack’s own feelings for Cleo to see it through. If someone had squeezed a round of bullets into his heart it wouldn’t have hurt more. His father knew how Jack felt about her. And despised him for it, as if it had been some sort of contest.

  Why? Dad had done his damnedest to make Jack look bad in her eyes. Jack always suspected the man couldn’t face the prospect of not having a female in his life, as if it was a bruise to his male ego. His cancer would have been the perfect trigger to win over Cleo’s sympathy. Or more.

  As he passed the dining room he saw Cleo through the glass doors. She was still standing by the window, hugging her arms and looking out across the lawn. Her hair caught the light around the edges, creating a halo effect.

  His gut cramped. That damn angel again. Even if she’d been his father’s lover, he couldn’t cut off his feelings for her any more than he could cut off his own arm. That didn’t mean he had to stay and torture himself.

  ‘Jack?’ Scott asked quietly.

  Not ready to commit to anything yet, Jack rammed a fist into his open palm. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  The back door slapped shut behind him as he crossed the neatly manicured lawn to the place he’d always taken his troubles. The old wattle tree. Beneath its branches the air smelled of summer and dry leaves and solitude. He sank to the ground, leaned against the trunk. Drawing up his knees, he let his forearms rest on them and closed his eyes.

  Doc Romano had told him it was important to avoid stress during recovery. Slow deep breaths, muscles loose. Relax. But his muscles remained clenched despite his best efforts.

  The old dottore hadn’t met Jack’s family.

  If you could call it a family. One word summed it up. Dysfunctional. And now the man who called himself a father was leaving someone else everything he owned.

  He didn’t hear Cleo, rather he felt her presence; a stirring of the senses, like an approaching change in the weather. That light mix of jasmine and woman drifted over him. He wanted to capture that fragrance and carry it next to his heart for the rest of his miserable life. His solitary miserable life.

  ‘Jack?’ She spoke softly, tentatively, as if unsure of his response. He felt her kneel in front of his raised knees. ‘This is new,’ she began. ‘You were always so revved. I could almost believe you’re sleeping.’

  He let his eyes remain shut and absorbed the velvet sound of her voice.

  ‘So...if you’re asleep you won’t hear me apologise for what happened back there.’

  An apology? From Cleo? Another reminder that she was no longer a kid but a mature woman. Question was, what was she apologising for? He opened his eyes, then wished like hell he hadn’t.

  Sunshine and sex.

  How was a man supposed to avoid stress, let alone think rationally, when the girl of his fantasies was at his knees, her face inches away from his crotch? He would have risen but for the sudden bulge that surged uncomfortably against the tight seam of his jeans and the fact that he didn’t think his legs would hold him.

  ‘Honest to God, Jack, I had no idea about the house.’

  ‘Forget the bloody house. It’s just a house.’

  She leaned nearer. Her strawberry top gaped, giving him a bird’s-eye view of soft shadows and curves. Then, by God, she placed those long, slender hands on his knees. />
  ‘Not just a house,’ she said. ‘And I’m not going to forget it. We have to talk.’

  The pressure of her fingers burned through his jeans, sending hot darts of pleasure—or was it pain?—shooting up his thighs. The thought of those fingers sliding over his bare flesh, inching up... He cleared his throat, patted the ground beside him. ‘For God’s sake, sit down.’

  To his relief she did as he asked for once. Sunlight dappled her skin as she tilted her head and studied him. ‘I don’t know the man you’ve become, Jack. But I want to. We’re both different people now. Perhaps we could work on something together, get to know each other again.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ If he could get his brain in gear. Right now the only thing his scrambled brain could conjure up involved nothing more than the two of them and a bed. Maybe not even the bed.

  She clasped her arms around her own upraised knees. ‘I’ve been a pain in the bum over the years, I admit it. But you weren’t exactly Mr Congeniality yourself.’

  He almost weakened. The urge to reach out, to open up and tell her all the reasons why, welled inside him. But the past half-hour had changed everything.

  Watching him with those wide, slumberous eyes, she waited for him to respond. To deny his lack of congeniality, perhaps? But she was right on; at this point he felt anything but.

  Her jaw firmed, her delectable mouth pursed. ‘I assume by that surly expression the answer’s no?’

  ‘I said I’ll think about it. What do you want, a promissory note?’ She blinked at him and he felt a stab of guilt. ‘Give me a break, Cleo.’

  ‘Give you a break?’ She straightened and pulled away. There was a steely edge to her voice that warned him she was stronger than he’d ever given her credit for.

  ‘Do you realise what you said inside?’ she continued in that razor-edged tone. ‘I don’t want your father’s money and I’ll tell you now, Jack, I won’t stand for the verbal slurs you cast on him and me. If you want to follow that path, you can just follow it right back to Italy.