Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3)

by Tracey Alvarez

  She turned back to him, pasting on a let’s just ignore this embarrassing situation smile. Pale blue eyes stared straight at her—eyes belonging to a nearly six foot tall, brown-haired, unsettlingly familiar male.

  It couldn’t be.

  Shaye’s heart ping-ponged around her chest. Could it be…?

  Her Good Samaritan grinned, exposing straight white teeth—except for one slightly turned out front tooth missing a tiny chip. A chip she’d created bowling a cricket ball at him fifteen years ago.

  It could be. It totally could.

  He chuckled, a low and dirty laugh that made her scalp prickle. “Well, well. If it isn’t little Shaye Harland, all grown up.”

  Shaye glanced down at the scrap of pink lace peeping out of his fist.

  Fudge. What a perfect way to be reintroduced to Del Westlake, her future brother-in-law.

  She gawked at him. The skinny fourteen-year-old boy she’d known had transformed into a too-good-looking-for-his-own-good man. Good looking, but not drool-worthy—like, say, Due South’s bartender, Kip, or a shirtless Joe Manganiello. Not her type at all. So why couldn’t she drag her gaze away?

  Shaye smoothed down her skirt while she wrangled her tongue into action. “Hello, Del. What brings you back to the bowels of Middle Earth?”

  He folded his arms, the panties vanishing under his coat. “Lord of the Rings, right? Still can’t keep your nose out of a book?”

  “Probably no more than you can keep your hands out of a cookie jar.”

  Or out of a woman’s panties…Oh yeah, a certain type of woman would be drawn to Del Westlake like an ant to sugar.

  “Been a while since I’ve raided a cookie jar.” A dimple appeared in the crease of his cheek.

  A woman susceptible to the Westlake’s charm might’ve gotten a little tingle down in her happy-place. But not Shaye. She’d worked with Ryan “West” Westlake for too many years.

  She sniffed and tossed her ponytail over her shoulder. Limping slightly, she crossed to sit on one of the benches beneath the hand rail. She brushed grit off her knees, and Del eased down a few feet away. His assessing gaze roamed over her like laser beams, and her shoulders knotted into little rocky beads. Judging from Stewart Island’s green hills in the distance, she had at least another twenty minutes to suffer in his company.

  Company she wouldn’t have suffered in at all, if the man hadn’t captured her panties. Piper’s hen-party panties, she silently amended. Shaye’d wear underwear like that the day she started baking muffins from a box mix.

  Granny knickers and handcuffs and crotch-less panties…oh myyy. Why, why, did it have to be Del? Play it cool, Shaye. Just play it cool.

  She leaned back and tugged her handbag closer to her side.

  “So. Stewart Island’s a long way from Hollywood.”

  Well, duh. So much for playing it cool.

  “Thank God for it.”

  Her hands bunched into fists around the hem of her skirt, stopping it from flapping up in the wind. No loyalty left from his New Zealand childhood, obviously. She brushed away a twinge of irritation. It made no difference to her. She expected West’s only brother to attend the wedding—Piper told Shaye that West had already asked Del to be best man. But given that Del worked as some hot-shot chef in LA, what was he doing here a month before the big day?

  “You’re a little early for the wedding.”

  “I am.” He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, tipping his head to stare at the sky. “Change of plans.”

  What plans? Oh, of course—Bill.

  Her stomach lurched sideways. “Your mum rang to tell you about your dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  Del jerked up from his slouched position and hunkered forward, his hands dangling between his thighs—hands empty of the lacy panties. Damn. They must still be in his pocket. Shaye wriggled on the hard bench, her gaze drawn from his coat to the tanned skin on his wrists and hands. A couple of fine white scars criss-crossed his fingers, and across his knuckles was an ancient burn mark, probably caused by a brush with an oven element—she should know; she had one like it on her pinkie finger. A chef’s badge of honor.

  “Is he working at all?” he asked after a long pause.

  “Three mornings a week on light prep, the rest of the time he’s bugging suppliers on the phone and doing paperwork.”

  Del grunted—not quite a laugh, not quite a sneer. “Bet that doesn’t go down well.”

  “No.” And it hurt to see her mentor struggle to keep up the pretense of coping with kitchen duties while still making the weekly trip to Invercargill hospital for dialysis.

  If Del had come to see his father after thirteen years of silence…then Bill must be worse than she knew. Maybe Del had arrived early to go through the necessary medical rigmarole to see if kidney donation was a possibility. Her throat felt scratched raw, as if she’d swallowed an unpeeled kiwifruit.

  “He’ll be glad to see you.”

  Del twisted his head toward her. His eyes, so pale a blue they were almost steel grey, pinned her still.

  “I doubt it.” The flat tone of his voice masked any emotion.

  Well. That was odd…

  Del must feel something about seeing his father again after so many years. But being a guy, he’d think confessing to emotions other than the acceptably masculine happy, bored, or horny meant turning in his man-card.

  But did she want to pry further into the mine-laden fields of this man’s ego? No, she did not. She had a bit of a reputation as an eternal peace-maker, but not today, ladies and gentleman. She wouldn’t get in the middle of the Westlake family reunion if someone threatened her with one of her knives.

  Del shifted positions again, arching his neck to glance past her at the rolling hills of Stewart Island. Then he checked his watch—because her company was just that stimulating—and shoved his fists into his pockets again. Which reminded her…

  She stuck out a hand. “Can I have them back now? Please.”

  Del’s brow creased over his baby blues. “What?”

  The man really did have pretty eyes, but seriously? Making her ask?

  “The underwear. For Piper’s hen party.” Don’t-blush-don’t-blush. She dropped her gaze from his eyes to his mouth…perfect lips circled with a trace of stubble. Just as pretty as his eyes.

  Ah, not helping the anti-blushing efforts, Shaye-Shaye.

  “Oh? They’re not for you?” He tugged the panties out of his pocket and held them up. There wasn’t much to hold, and the breeze caught the scrap of lace and wrapped it around his fingers.

  “They’re a gift.”

  “Like the handcuffs?”

  “Yes. I thought they’d be funny, considering Piper’s previous job.”

  Funny at the time…not so funny now that panties and handcuffs were subjects of discussion.

  “That’s right, she’s an ex-cop. West mentioned it.”

  Shaye launched into a defense of Piper’s credentials as the first female member of the New Zealand Police National Dive Squad.

  “And the ugly brown panties?” Del interrupted. “Another gift?”

  “None of your damn business.” She wriggled her fingers. “Now, hand them over.”

  He tilted his chin, highlighting a small cleft. For a moment, she thought he’d dangle them out of reach. Instead, he leaned over and dropped them into her palm.

  “Too practical for pink lace? You always were the sensible one.”

  Yep. That was her. The youngest Harland sister—practical, sensible, dutiful, and in the minds of men like Del, b-o-r-i-n-g. Not that it mattered if the man thought she was dullness personified—he sure wouldn’t appear on her Mr. Perfect checklist either. Men like him weren’t perfect for women like her.

  And she needed perfect.

  With as much dignity as she could scoop up from the toes of her boots, Shaye shoved the panties into her handbag and stood. “Nice to see you again, Del. Enjoy your visit.”

  She turned and walked tow
ard the passenger lounge door. Give her Mr. Peterson’s bowel problems any day.

  “Shaye—” The wind caught the rest of his words and tossed them into the whitecaps.

  They’d be docking soon, and she’d be able to avoid the pain in the rear behind her.

  At least until her sister’s wedding.

  Chapter 2

  Atta-boy, Del.

  Shaye yanked the passenger lounge door open so hard it missed clipping her nose by a fraction of an inch. Whatever passed for the health department in this God-forsaken country would have a field day with him—“Quick, isolate the guy with a raging case of foot-in-mouth-itus.” Wouldn’t working in his father’s backwater restaurant be fun when his new sous chef—who didn’t seem to realize she’d soon be his sous chef—found out why he was here?

  Assuming his mother hadn’t jumped the gun since their conversation a week ago and filled the head chef position with some moron who didn’t know an allumette cut vegetable from his asshole. The ultimate irony, considering he’d given up his apartment, put all his stuff into storage, and had been in transit for the last twenty-something-hours.

  Del scraped a hand along his prickly jaw, tempted to check his breath, though he’d brushed his teeth in Auckland airport before boarding the flying tin-can to the old-school South Island city of Invercargill. He stretched out his legs again and rested against the ferry’s side with a groan. Guess bad breath wasn’t the reason Shaye looked at him as if he were a fat roach scurrying out from underneath the refrigerator. It didn’t matter.

  Lately, he looked at himself in the mirror the same way.

  But Shaye…his lips tugged upward. She still had long, nutmeg-colored hair strangled in a prissy ponytail, and big hazel eyes that gave away every damn emotion churning in her brain. There, the similarity to his childhood memories ended.

  He rolled his head, and through the spray-splashed windows he glimpsed her three-quarter profile. The bony, bookish little thing had grown into a woman with knock-you-on-your-ass curves, a lush mouth begging a man to nibble on it, and she smelled so damn good you could plate her and serve her at an A-list restaurant.

  Add those pink panties to the mix? Holy hell.

  He was a guy, after all—and imagining her naked except for those knickers went with the territory. He closed his eyes, the rise and fall of the ocean as they chugged along almost soothing. Del couldn’t help wondering what she wore under her chef whites…

  “Mate? Wake up, we’re here.”

  He cracked an eye open and sat up, rubbing a hand down his aching neck, while the uniformed purser who’d shaken Del’s shoulder strode away to help an old guy onto the wharf.

  Jesus, he’d been out cold.

  He glanced at the remaining passengers. No brunette hottie in sight. Just as well. If he accepted the position of head chef—and let’s face it, he didn’t have a choice, because even a theme-park restaurant refused to fucking employ him—he couldn’t allow fantasies about the youngest Harland sister to stop him achieving his goals.

  Del retrieved the sports bag he’d earlier kicked under the bench seat, collected his suitcase, and strode onto the wharf. The sun blasted through the straggly clouds, beating a fierce tattoo on his head. The heat probably sped up the evaporation process or something, because the stench of brine choked the air. Brine and diesel fumes from the ferry behind him. And damn good coffee.

  He paused at the squat building with wide-open doors, drawn by the hiss of an espresso machine. A short line of people queued at the counter, some scanning a menu folder, others pointing at the display cabinet of baked goods.

  “The Great Flat White café.” He read off the script above the door. At each end of the sign was a logo of a Great White shark, one of Stewart Island’s tourist attractions. “Cute.”

  He continued along the wharf, dragging his suitcase and feeling like the biggest loopie ever. Yeah, he remembered how he and his buddies used to snicker about the tourists and their fancy luggage and fancier clothes. Now he was one of them.

  Damn straight.

  Del’s teeth clicked together as he stepped onto Oban’s main street. To the right, the road wound off through a ton of trees and a scattering of houses—West lived somewhere up there. To the left, the tiny settlement of Oban itself, pretty much unchanged since he was a kid. A couple of small, quirky shops, Russell’s grocery store, a garage still ran by one of his old buddies’ dad, the playing fields and little school, and the historic Due South hotel. He walked toward it, the sun his childhood orbited around growing bigger with each step.

  The two story building was a sour cream color with contrasting yellow trim and a blue roof. Part of him expected to find it with paint peeling, weeds sprouting out of the concrete patio where diners could sit outside, a crooked sign, and hell, maybe even vampire bats nesting under the verandah eaves. But his big brother wouldn’t allow Due South to deteriorate; he loved the damn place.

  Go figure.

  A familiar face strode out the front doors and jogged down the steps to the road. Speak of the devil. West ran toward him—so much for his brother’s innate coolness, which went with being two years older—and wrapped Del in a bear hug.

  “Little bro!” West thumped his back, pulled away, and planted a smacking kiss on both cheeks.

  Del barked out a strangled laugh and jerked his head away. “The hell is wrong with you?”

  West grinned, apparently not offended, and slugged Del in the biceps, a much more acceptable gesture. Affection in his family was plain weird.

  “I’ve almost got an Italian sister-in-law, kinda rubs off. Shaye told me you were here. Good to see your ugly face on something other than a screen.”

  Del bet his left nut Shaye hadn’t told West about their little run-in on the ferry, though. Remembering her face flushed with embarrassment caused his mouth-spasm to turn into a smile.

  “You’re the one who insists on using video chat. Like I want to see you spill cookie crumbs all over your laptop when you’re meant to be working.”

  “Hey, normal people aren’t psychotically obsessive about work and take regular breaks to like, I dunno, talk to their family from time to time.” West crooked an eyebrow. “And besides, jealous, much? Shaye makes frickin’ amazing cookies.”

  “Cookies? You’re such a pussy.” Del shoved his sports bag into West’s chest, knocking him back half a step, and grabbed the handle of his suitcase. “Can we get out of the middle of the road now?”

  People still walked on the road here, though it drove the locals nuts. But with limited vehicles in Oban, sidewalks were largely ignored. Across from the hotel, a couple of kids played in a tiny playground, the grass surrounding the swing set and slide sloping down to the beach. An elderly couple strolled along the smooth sand. Shallow waves bubbling past their bare feet toward the dinghies lined up near the jumble of stout boulders separating beach and grass.

  Del followed West across the road.

  “We’ll leave your bags here, and I’ll get them dropped up to my place later—you’ll bunk with us, of course,” West said.

  Crash the lovebirds little feathered nest? Thanks, but no. “It’d be easier if I stay at the hotel.”

  West paused, a frown dancing across his lips before he shrugged. “Up to you. I’ll check to see what we’ve got.”

  Through the bar’s open window came good-natured laughter and the rumble of conversation. Happy hour started soon, and both locals and loopies would gather to circle around battered wooden tables to chase away the day’s worries with a cold one.

  God, could he use a beer. Or two. Or a dozen.

  Jerking his chin away, Del clenched his fist tighter on the suitcase handle and surreptitiously stared at West. While they’d never be mistaken as twins, and his big brother still had an inch or so of height over him, they both had the same non-receding-and-thank-God-for-it mess of brown hair and a similar lean, athletic build. West probably outweighed Del by a few pounds, most of it muscle since the cookies and home-cooke
d meals didn’t appear to have gone straight to his gut.

  Being this close to West felt weird. The last time they’d seen each other face to face was five years ago when West had a two-night stopover in LA on the way to a free-diving course in the Caribbean. They’d hung out a bit, gone to a ball game because West wanted to experience the Giants getting their asses handed to them by the Dodgers, but then Del’s boss called. Brother bonding time over. Yeah, West was Del’s brother, but West had remained relegated to Del’s past life, disconnected from the here and now.

  “By the way—” Del said as they climbed the hotel steps to the front entrance. “I’m not psychotically obsessive. Just…driven. You used to be too.”

  Hell if he knew why he needed to defend himself. He was doing West and his father a favor.

  Chuckling, West jabbed him in the stomach. “Guilty. But I got my priorities straight.”

  “You mean you got laid.”

  “Yeah, that too. Piper’s amazing.”

  Del cut him a sharp glance. The man really was a smitten kitten. “I thought Shaye’s cookies were amazing. You comparing your woman to cookies?”

  “Oh. She’s better than cookies.”

  A dreamy light slid into his brother’s eyes, and Del knew West’s brain was conjuring up images of sex. Hot, sweaty, bang-her-up-against-the-wall sex. The kind of sex Del hadn’t had in far too long. The kind of sex perfect for taking his mind off a cold beer. He conjured up an image of his own. Shaye’s bare legs clamped around him, her pouty lips crushed against his.

  Fuck. That image alone was better than cookies.

  He blinked rapidly and glanced at West, who continued to talk, though Del had no idea what about. “Say again? Sorry, I was tuning out all your girlish gushing.”

  West rolled his eyes. “I said, ‘I’m lucky Shaye’s brilliant in the kitchen and provides leftovers. Piper can’t cook worth shit.’”

  “Gotcha.”

  Shaye again. Why had his dick chosen to fantasize about the one woman on Oban he couldn’t do, even if she stripped naked, bar those pink panties, and covered her tits in whipped cream? Getting tangled up with his soon-to-be sister-in-law in any shape or form meant trouble. He had enough trouble of his own to cope with.