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

by Anne Oliver

  Cleo swallowed over the sudden grip on her heart. Just between us. But she stepped away, turned, and, hugging her bundle, fast-tracked back to her room. Closed the door. The fragrance of the Yves Saint Laurent soap she hoarded for special occasions filled her nostrils. It was a painful but necessary reminder that this might not be a special occasion for playboy Jack.

  Did tigers change their stripes? She walked into her bathroom and turned the shower on full blast. She was probably being paranoid, but she’d wait to see if he was going to let her in on his secret rendezvous. Okay, Jack. Let’s see how you play this. Then I’ll know.

  * * *

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’ Scott said as Cleo entered the kitchen.

  She snatched up her thong at the doorway and her bra from the counter, averting her eyes from the man who knew too much, and sighed. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘It looks like Black Forest cake.’

  She looked up. He was standing in front of the open refrigerator.

  He licked a finger. ‘Tastes like Black Forest cake.’

  ‘Go ahead, it’s all yours,’ she said, looking for a spot to hide her undies. She gave it up—what was the point?—and put them on a chair.

  He cut off a wedge. ‘Want some?’

  ‘I’ll stick to fruit and coffee.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like the Cleo I know.’

  ‘Maybe I’m not the Cleo you know.’ She took a knife and plate to the breakfast bar, sat down on a stool and reached for an orange.

  ‘I’ve been trying to figure out who you look like without the hair. Tinkerbell,’ he decided.

  ‘Great.’ So much for sophisticated.

  ‘What does Jack think?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She wasn’t sure about anything where Jack was concerned any more.

  ‘So...’ Scott set his cake down and sat on the stool beside her. ‘You and Jack, huh?’

  The fresh tang of citrus scented the air as she sliced her orange. They couldn’t pretend nothing had happened, but she so didn’t want to discuss it with Scott right now. ‘Can we talk about something—’

  ‘Where did you get to, Goldilocks?’ Jack breezed in as if nothing had changed. He nuzzled her neck briefly, his soapy smell reminding her of the shower she hadn’t shared, and whispered, ‘Get rid of Scott. I want to talk to you—among other things,’ then nicked a slice of her orange.

  She watched him suck at it while he poured coffee. The long, hard length of him was now casually covered in shorts and T-shirt, but she could still see him last night, against that door less than a meter away. Naked, primal and fully aroused. The tiger and his stripes.

  He’d been sucking her with the same enthusiasm. A tide of hot flushes washed through her as her body remembered and responded.

  She was still watching and remembering when he stopped in mid-pour and frowned, his attention drawn to something beyond the window.

  ‘Scotty?’ He jutted his chin in the direction of his glare. ‘Whose car’s that?’

  ‘The Corolla? It’s a friend’s. I lent him my car for the weekend. Had to drive his mother to her sister’s in Ballarat.’

  ‘So you drove Cleo home last night. Thanks.’

  ‘No worries.’

  Jack continued to top up his coffee, but Cleo saw the tension in his shoulders ease. In fact he looked extraordinarily pleased, she thought with a snarl as she picked at her orange. Smug, even.

  Did the man always get what he wanted? ‘I’ll be out back,’ Cleo said, grabbing her coffee as she rose.

  Jack looked up sharply. ‘Hey, I thought...’

  She met his eyes and acknowledged the heated look that told her exactly what he thought. ‘I’m behind in my commissions. I need to clock up some work hours.’ And you have something to tell me. Or did he?

  His lips curved in a sexy grin. ‘Perhaps I can help.’

  She nodded. ‘Perhaps you can.’

  ‘Wait up,’ Scott said, reaching for the file beside him on the table. ‘Before you both disappear I need you to sign these papers. Then the estate’s done and I can leave you alone for the rest of the day.’

  Knowing how hurt and humiliated Jack must feel, Cleo gritted her teeth and replaced her mug carefully on the table. This morning had taken another turn for the worse.

  * * *

  Jack sat in his father’s big leather chair and scowled at the papers in his hand. He’d always avoided this room. This had been his father’s domain, where he’d doled out verbal and physical abuse behind closed doors.

  So why was he sitting in this monstrosity of an office when the woman in his life was a thirty-second walk away?

  Because she’d told him she needed to work on her jewellery. He could understand her wanting some space. A simple signature and she had just become an unwillingly wealthy woman. He understood that.

  But was that all that was bothering her? They’d both known the score on that point and he’d accepted it. Still, she’d seemed on edge when he’d joined her in the kitchen.

  Was it the fact that they’d made love? He shook his head. It wasn’t her first time. He had to smile at her confession, and at the same time he had to hate the guy who’d taken what Jack had tried so hard to keep intact.

  No. He’d noticed...something in those big blue eyes as she’d left for her workshop. Was it the Corolla moment? She’d managed to keep him guessing there. Perhaps she was disappointed he’d discovered her little secret.

  The other reason he was here instead of trying to entice Cleo back inside and into his bed was because he’d also promised Scott some info a week ago and he’d promised to have it by the end of today.

  Unfortunately it involved sorting through his father’s filing system and desk drawers. He made a half-hearted attempt to start, then gave up, rolled the chair back and deliberately jammed his feet on the polished mahogany desk with its dark leather inlay.

  His head was too crowded with thoughts and images of Cleo. The way those creative jeweller’s hands had worked their magic on him, and her body so snug and so right against his. The scent and taste of her soft, milky skin, her sexy moans when she came—that had to be the most incredible moment of his life.

  And the whole thing might not have happened if he hadn’t seen her rock up in another man’s car and panicked—Scott, as it turned out; the only man he trusted, the man he owed big time.

  But Cleo was a family-and-commitment girl with her roots firmly in her home town whereas he needed to return to Rome, at least for a few weeks. He had obligations—Domenic and Carmela for starters. Carmela had informed him the old man was out of danger. He wanted to see for himself without a bullet in his chest.

  But where was home? Not Rome. But for him, thanks to his father, home was a dirty word. Family was a dirty word. Jack loved the travel, the freedom of being his own boss, the love-’em-and-leave-’em credo he’d lived by for the first couple of years overseas.

  Filming in war-ravaged areas had changed the way he looked at the world, and he’d been bound by a sense of duty he hadn’t thought he’d had to stay and help. He’d thrived on the challenge.

  Could he give all that up? And if he did, if he stayed...was he being fair to Cleo? With his father’s violence and his mother’s wanderlust in his veins, he was a bad bet.

  Last night the cold, hard reality of seeing Cleo with another man in the shadowy confines of a car had tipped him over the edge. He lowered his feet and pushed away from the desk to pace. He’d lost it, big time. Lost control. Like his father. He struck a fist on the filing cabinet, tugged at a drawer. It opened with a sharp metallic sound. He had to get this done and get the hell out of his old man’s office.

  He dealt with the paperwork, saving a padded envelope Scott had handed him as he’d left today till last. As he sliced it open a gold key fell out,
tagged ‘lower desk drawer’. Fingers of tension gripped his neck as he studied the key in his hand. ‘Okay, old man, what little surprise have you left me now?’ Nothing pleasant, he was sure.

  He fitted the key, opened the drawer and found a letter addressed to him in his father’s handwriting. Expelling a four-letter word, he considered tossing it out, but perhaps it had some info that pertained to Cleo or the estate.

  The letter was dated six weeks before his death.

  Jack,

  As you read this, Cleo has inherited my estate. I knew I could count on your feelings for her to see it through.

  I understand why you didn’t return sooner, even if Cleo doesn’t. I made mistakes but I had my reasons.

  ‘Is there a valid reason to beat your son?’ Jack grated through his teeth.

  I fell for your mother knowing she was on the rebound. We married within a month and seven months later you were born. But I soon discovered domestic life didn’t suit Atta. She was always off on some research caper or studying.

  Then after thirteen years of marriage she announced that our tenant, John Honeywell, and she were involved in more than research. Their decision to join that expedition to Antarctica meant dumping you kids. They just forgot to collect you on their return.

  Another surprise. Years ago a routine examination revealed I was firing blanks. I am not your father, Jack. Perhaps that helps you understand why I could never love you; even before I found out, in my heart I knew.

  As for Cleo—who wouldn’t love her? And she was the only person who loved me for myself. You threatened that relationship. I did what I had to do to keep it.

  Discovering you’re only half a man makes one look at things differently. I needed a woman in my life. I needed Cleo.

  You’re wondering why I didn’t pack you off to your mother when I discovered you weren’t my son. You were already eighteen. Cleo adored you—she would have followed. I couldn’t let that happen. But if I could convince her that you weren’t worthy of her love...

  Jack shook his head. ‘You were one sick son of a bitch, Gerry Devlin.’

  Finally, you won’t be aware Atta and John first knew each other as uni students twenty-eight years ago. I met Atta after John took off on some overseas research scholarship. Make what you will of that.

  Jack’s fingers tightened on the paper. He’d been born twenty-seven years ago.

  What you tell Cleo and how you deal with it is up to you. Perhaps you’ll curse me for telling you, perhaps you’ll thank me...

  Jack didn’t read any further. He couldn’t seem to hold the paper steady. His stomach pitched and rolled; his eyes wouldn’t seem to focus. Dates and years and calculations rampaged through his mind.

  Think! But he didn’t want to think. To think was to know. He slammed a fist on the desk. The glass lamp trembled. Papers sailed onto the floor as he swept them aside with a slash of his hand.

  To know, was to know what his father was capable of. The part about John Honeywell had to be a lie. Deep down in some dark corner of his heart he knew it was a lie, but true to form, his father—not his father—Gerry had set him up to doubt. He refused to doubt.

  But he had to be sure.

  To do that he had to find his mother. Even if Honeywell hadn’t been his mother’s lover twenty-eight years ago, he couldn’t put Cleo through the pain of knowing he was meeting her. Nor could he could tell her why.

  Dad’s—Gerry’s—coup de grâce. Your father could be my father. The words shredded the very fabric of his life as he knew it, and he didn’t know how he’d ever stitch it back together. ‘Cleo.’ Her name vibrated on his lips. She was the only thread that could save him.

  He fumbled with the phone and had to punch in Scott’s number twice. ‘It’s Jack.’ He steam-rolled over Scott’s cheery good morning. ‘Drop whatever you’re doing, I need your help.’

  Fifteen minutes later, Jack had a bag packed, a seat on the next flight to North Queensland, and Scotty’s word to keep his mouth well and truly sealed. Thank God Scott the lawyer had his mother’s address on file.

  Depending on what he found he had to prepare for the possibility of severing all ties. Cleo could start a new life, be happy. Without him. That prospect wrenched at his heart till there was no room for anything inside him but pain.

  He rang for a taxi, parked his bag by the front door and took a deep breath. All he had left to do now was inform Cleo he was leaving.

  * * *

  Therapeutic. That was what Cleo told herself as she pounded the sheet of metal. The forging hammer felt good and solid and familiar in her hand as she worked. Something she could control. An outlet for her emotions. She imagined it ran a close second to a punching bag.

  She should be working on the silver and amethyst drop necklace she’d been fretting over for weeks, but it demanded intricate and exacting work, and she needed something more physical.

  Which of course segued straight to Jack. She’d inherited what was his. That earned a chime of metal on metal that jangled through her hand and up her arm. She intended changing that as soon as Scott could do the paperwork.

  Half an hour had passed and Jack hadn’t come to talk to her about his coffee ‘date’. Another clang. How could he make love to her as if she were the only woman in the world and arrange to meet another without telling her about it? Was she being paranoid? Probably.

  ‘Knock knock.’

  Cleo looked up, almost dropping her hammer with relief at the sound of Jack’s seriously deep voice, and smiled. ‘Hi.’

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything too complicated.’

  Now he just sounded serious. A shadow seeped into her bones and her smile dropped away. She picked up a probe, began scoring the metal’s surface and said, ‘Would it make a difference?’

  ‘This time? No. Cleo... I came to tell you I’m—’

  ‘Leaving.’ She closed her eyes.

  One word to sum up Jack Devlin.

  The loneliest word in the world.

  He was going to put her out of his life now and move on. Like last time. No, not like last time, because this time he was taking more than her broken heart. He was taking the memories of one glorious night together—because she would never think of it again.

  He was taking away hope. Her hope for a future with Jack, the home they could have shared, the babies they could have made...

  Carefully, so he wouldn’t see her hand shake, she swapped the probe for her hammer, ran it through her fingers, tapped it against her palm.

  In the silence she heard the tinkle of her metal wind chimes outside the door, the neighbourhood sounds of someone’s power tool and traffic and birds. Homey sounds. Sounds Jack didn’t take the time to hear.

  She forced herself to take one last look at him before she put him out of her mind, and her heart, for ever.

  Dark—and was that troubled?—eyes met hers. The amorous, casual guy from breakfast had disappeared behind a stone façade.

  His eyes flicked to the hammer she’d forgotten about. She tapped it against her palm again, harder, so that she felt the jolt sing up her arm. ‘Someone beautiful offer you something better than love, Jack?’

  He flinched at the word. She saw the stone wall crack a little and something infinitely sad clouded his eyes before anger took hold. ‘Don’t piss me off with crap like that. I’m coming back, Cleo, and we’ll talk.’

  ‘You know something, Jack? I don’t want to talk to you, ever again. And I want to piss you off. I want to piss you off so bad that you never come back. And if you do, by some miracle, come back you won’t find me here. Because I won’t wait for you again.

  ‘I love you, Jack Devlin. I love you more than I can say, more than you’ll ever know. If I got down on my knees and humiliated myself some more and begged you to stay, or to take me with you, w
ould you, Jack?’

  His jaw tightened and he closed his eyes briefly. Then he lifted a hand, let it fall. ‘Cleo, I—’

  ‘Didn’t think so. I’m through waiting for you. Goodbye, Jack.’ Biting down hard on her lip to stop it trembling, she turned away and pounded metal to metal.

  She didn’t hear him leave, but a few minutes later, when her arm burned with the effort and she’d all but flattened her strip to smithereens, she realised she was alone again.

  The knowledge left her reeling with grief. She wanted to love him, wanted him to love her, so desperately, so completely, she’d just shouted the word for all the world to hear—three times, for God’s sake. Idiot. She threw her hammer across the room, then swiped a piece of pipe from her workbench and threw that too.

  But Jack had never mentioned love. Jack was incapable of loving—he hadn’t even mourned his father. One thing was certain; she couldn’t stay here. Wouldn’t stay here. Wouldn’t be waiting for Jack if and when he decided to come back.

  ELEVEN

  ‘Thanks for letting me and Con stay here, Scott. You’re a real hero.’ Cleo was on hands and knees trying unsuccessfully to tempt the hulk from behind Scott’s sofa with a bowl of chopped ham.

  ‘No problem.’

  She glanced up at the sombre tone to see Scott in the doorway, arms crossed and a frown line between his brows. ‘Do you think Jase’ll mind?’ She had a sneaky feeling Scott’s flatmate wasn’t particularly fond of cats. Or of Cleo herself, for that matter.

  ‘This apartment’s half mine; it’s okay.’

  Not the answer she was hoping for, but Jeanne’s tiny one-bedroom apartment didn’t allow pets. And she absolutely, positively couldn’t sleep alone in her house tonight. Her house. The reality only compounded her misery.