Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3)

by Tracey Alvarez

  If West thinks it’s a good idea.

  Del touched his tongue to the inside of his cheek, still raw from when he’d bitten down the urge to tell Bill his younger son’s reasoning was as sound as his eldest’s.

  And God-fucking-dammit, give me some credit for not being a moron.

  They walked into the kitchen, Del scanning to make sure everything was in order since they’d left Vince and Fraser completing the final clean up. He snuck another glance at Shaye, who still appeared fresh as a proverbial daisy in a pretty yellow tee shirt she’d worn under her chef’s jacket. The shirt clung to all the right spots, and he dragged his gaze away before he got caught ogling his sous’s rack. Again.

  “Hey.” He touched her elbow before she could disappear upstairs. “Buy you a wine? The pub’s open for another hour, and Ford’s playing. He’s pretty good and music soothes the savage breast so they say...”

  And now he was babbling, somewhat like a moron.

  She paused by a counter and folded her arms. “I’m not much of a wine drinker.”

  “Beer?” He tried on his most charming smile. “Like your sister?”

  She shook her head.

  “Fancy cocktail? I hear Kip makes a good Slippery Nipple?” Aiming for a smile to replace the frown lines on her forehead.

  Instead, one delicate eyebrow rose.

  He was completely screwing this up, but he just needed to spend a little more time with her tonight.

  “Ah.” He edged closer. Fired off his patented I’m a moron but still kinda appealing smile. “Not a cocktail type. I bet you’re a top shelf woman—Jack and Coke—am I right?”

  Her eyes flared wide, and her lips pinched tightly together in a narrow white line.

  What had he said? “No?”

  Shaye shook her head and kept her eyes downcast, a pulse at the base of her throat working overtime. He rubbed his hands down her arms, along the goosepimples raised on her soft skin. She didn’t pull away, but her muscles were tense as razor wire.

  “What did I say?”

  Her breath continued to snuffle in and out of her nose. Oh shit, had he made her cry?

  “Help a guy out; at least let me know what I’ve said to piss you off.”

  She looked up with a small twisted grimace. “I’m not pissed off at you, Del. I’m just not much of a drinker. Not wine, or beer, or Slippery Nipples”—she gave a choked laugh at that—“and especially not Jack and Coke.” She took another deep breath and met his gaze. “The other night, when I said my Dad made bad decisions? One of those decisions was getting drunk the night before he went diving with Piper.”

  “But your dad never drank alcohol because of his cholesterol medication—ah.” Light bulb moment. “He had a reaction with his pills underwater. Shit, I’m sorry…”

  Shaye shook her head, and his voice trailed off.

  “He was never on any pills. Dad was an alcoholic—but sober for more than fifteen years. He used the medication excuse with his mates, so he could stick to non-alcoholic drinks Friday night at the pub.”

  Michael had been an alcoholic? An alcoholic who’d gone on a bender and paid the price. Like he’d paid a price the last time he’d gone on a bender with Jessica and ended up proposing. God, if Shaye knew about the last year of his life…

  Del’s heart tripped and righted itself into a full-out sprint. “So, your dad had been drinking that night?”

  “Piper says the alcohol still in his system the morning he drowned would’ve affected his judgment. Diver error.” She shrugged, a world of hurt in the movement. “Or he could’ve had a heart-attack, or a stroke, or any number of things might’ve gone wrong. We’ll never find out what really happened.”

  “No one in your family knew about his problem?” He moved and leaned against the counter, his hip barely a few inches from hers.

  “Mum knew,” she said quietly. “And after his death we cleared out his office and found a half-empty bottle of whiskey stashed in a cupboard.”

  Fucking hell. “Jack Daniels, by any chance?”

  She nodded, stared straight ahead as if the swinging doors contained the answers to all the questions she no doubt wanted to ask her father. “We never told anyone. Mum thought people should remember him as a good man. Not an alcoholic who ruined his life and the lives of his family.”

  Del winced. “Jesus.”

  Shaye would’ve been fifteen when all this happened. Kind of a dramatic warning about the dangers of excess alcohol.

  “It’s okay; I’m not a complete teetotaler. I like a glass of bubbly on special occasions.” Her smile was fake and wide, almost embarrassed. “But I’m more a juice or soda girl, and I’m a cheap drunk. A couple of glasses of wine and I’m anyone’s.”

  “Anyone’s, huh?” He gently nudged her elbow.

  “Even tipsy, I still have my standards.” She stuck her nose in the air, but the sassy ‘tude was missing.

  “Good to hear. How about I buy you a virgin whiskey and Coke instead?”

  Needy, much? When had he ever cajoled a woman into having a drink with him? Hell, when had he last cared if a drink offer got turned down?

  Apparently, he cared now, because as Shaye moved away, his stomach clenched low and hard.

  “I’ll take a rain check, but thanks.”

  His mouth opened to say something charming enough to change her mind. Except she looked at him with those big hazel eyes—bloody Bambi eyes—filled with stirred-up grief and unbearable weariness, and he couldn’t think of a damn thing.

  She was so beautiful. And so sad.

  Del inclined his head. “Goodnight, then.”

  Shaye left him in the echoing silence of Due South’s kitchen. Alone with his thoughts. Alone with his guilt. Alone with a need for her he should immediately nip in the bud. Because the last person Shaye needed was a man who’d also let alcohol make wrong decisions for him.

  ***

  The thing about spending the night in an unfamiliar house was waking up wondering where you were.

  Raucous squawks, warbles, and tap-tap-tapping on the corrugated iron roof heralded Del’s first morning of tenancy at Walter’s beach house. He’d moved out of West’s spare room after work the night before, and got him to drop Del and his bags off at Shearwater Bay.

  “The hell?” He flung out a hand to grab his watch from the nightstand and smacked his knuckles against unyielding metal. “Fuck!”

  Del whimpered since no one was around to hear his pathetic-ness and cradled his probably broken fingers. Goddamned ladder where the nightstand should be. He located his watch—on his wrist, dumbass—and squinted at the lit-up digits. Fifty-five minutes past five.

  “Kidding me.”

  The sky outside was hazy with predawn, the low line of breakwater the only white in the landscape of grey. He could do with some blackout drapes. Shit outta luck there.

  Another screech and flurry of wings. His feathered visitor strutted along the deck railing outside, paused, and cocked its head. Squawked.

  An I know you’re in there squawk.

  As a kid, he’d wondered how the tourists could think the kakas were adorable with their rowdy antics—while he’d always thought they were the patched gang members of the parrot family.

  And they sucked as reliable alarm clocks.

  “Piss off, bird.” He flipped onto his back and scissor-kicked inside the confines of his borrowed sleeping bag. Bending an elbow over his eyes, he tried to recapture the dream he’d been having about squeezing Shaye’s lush breasts.

  Squawk! Then tappity-tap against the window glass.

  Del unzipped the sleeping bag and rolled off the mattress. After glaring at the sliding door for a few moments while the kaka shrieked and flapped, he got to his feet and staggered out to the kitchen.

  Dust still coated every surface, including the old-fashioned kettle on the four-ring gas hob. He figured dust in his coffee would be the least of his problems. The place was a pigsty. But at least he was blissfully alone—he could w
alk around in his damn underwear if he wanted to. Del glanced at his bare stomach and low-riding plaid boxers. And he did want to.

  Coffee made, he wandered over to the dining table and dragged out a chair. The feathery gang member continued to march up and down the railing.

  Tough, bird brain. I’m not feeding ya.

  The distant rumble of an engine rose over the gentle hiss of waves. Then headlights cut through the gloom and bounced off his windows, making him squint. What the hell? Car doors slammed—too close to be a neighbor’s unexpected morning visitors.

  Which meant they were his.

  Del stalked to the glass door and slid it open, dull light from the single hanging bulb in the room spilling out over the deck.

  “Bro.” His brother stood on his front lawn with a power-tool of some kind in one hand and a bucket of cleaning supplies in the other. “Put your pants on. There are ladies present.”

  Sure enough, drawing up the rear were Piper and Shaye. Also the bulk of Ford and Ben, the latter of whom looked surlier than usual—which said a lot. The kaka screeched in happy greeting and flapped its wings. Del sipped his coffee, remaining rooted to the spot against the doorframe. Standing in his boxers before seven in the morning with a bat-shit crazy bird doing the Harlem Shake on his deck…frickin’ awesome start to his half-day off.

  “What are you all doing here?” he said.

  “Cleaning crew,” Shaye replied.

  Her gaze seemed fixed somewhere off to his right, while Piper smirked at him, unrepentantly scanning him from head to toe.

  “It was Shaye’s idea,” Piper said. “She promised to cook us a bang-up full breakfast if we came and gave you a hand.”

  “She did, huh?”

  Ford rattled the plastic bottles in one of the buckets he carried. “Yep. More supplies are in the van. So stop parading your skinny white ass about, and let’s go.”

  Skinny white…Del narrowed his eyes. Why were they really here? He switched his glare to Shaye. With one hand busy clutching a mop and broom, she stopped examining the kaka and looked over. He raised a querying eyebrow.

  “Think of it as a barn-raising, like in the States,” she said.

  “There are no barn-raisings in Venice Beach.”

  And if there had been, no one would’ve bothered to show up to help him raise squat. With the exception of his stepsister, Carly. She would’ve had his back.

  “You’re not in LA anymore,” growled Ben. “Around here, we help each other out.”

  West crossed the sand and climbed the steps to the deck. “Shaye told us what a mess Wally’s place is in. It’s too much for you to do alone. We’ll help.” When Del continued to glare, West leaned forward and murmured, “Delly, it’s cold out. The underwear thing isn’t doing you any favors and we’re not going anywhere. Get some frickin’ pants on.”

  “Fine-but-don’t-call-me-Delly.” Realizing he sounded like the world’s most ungrateful dickhead, he added, “I appreciate it, guys. The kettle’s still hot if anyone wants coffee.”

  He spun around and stalked inside, deliberately keeping his eyes off Shaye but unable to stop wondering if she was checking out his ass.

  And if she liked what she saw.

  Two hours later, filthy with dust and grime but having made big inroads into creating a liveable house, Del left Ben, West, and Ford preparing the southern outside wall—Ben and Ford commandeering the two borrowed electric sanders, since he and West lost the coin toss. The guys ordered Del inside to be Piper and Shaye’s cleaning bitch. He walked in the door and Piper’s swearing cascaded out of the bathroom in a creative monologue. West wasn’t the only one to lose a coin toss.

  He poked his head into the bathroom. On her hands and knees, Piper scrubbed the ancient shower stall.

  “Need a hand?”

  She glanced up and swiped a pink rubber glove-covered wrist across her forehead. The glove left behind a streak of grime on her skin. Del pressed his lips together. If her aim was half as good as Shaye’s, he’d end up with a scrubbing brush between the eyes.

  Piper blew out a breath, ruffling the short strands of her bangs—except the one clump covered in grey goop. “Nah. Not enough room to swing a cat in here. Go help my little do-gooder sister.”

  Del grinned and backed out. He found Shaye quartering mushrooms in the tiny kitchen, along with the delicious smell of frying bacon. The kitchen counter gleamed, Piper and Shaye having elected to tackle it first. The sparkling countertop didn’t have half the fascination for him as recalling the softness of her lips, the sweet taste of her mouth, and the lush curves beneath his hands. Red-hot memories. Nothing he should dwell on before he’d even had his second morning coffee.

  “A working-man’s breakfast.” He sauntered around to the other side of the counter and rested his palms on the cool surface.

  She focused on the wooden chopping board. “Get your dirty paws off my clean food-prep area.”

  Del raised his hands and turned sideways, leaning a hip against the counter instead. She scraped off the mushrooms into a waiting bowl, whirled around to the stove, and neatly flipped the bacon rashers over—in a twelve-inch cast aluminum fry pan.

  “Where did that come from?”

  Shaye speared a glance over her shoulder. “What?”

  “The fry pan.” He narrowed his eyes at the pot simmering on the back ring. “And the pot? And those?” He gestured to the set of stoneware bowls lined up and filled with chopped mushrooms and onion rings. “This stuff wasn’t here last night.”

  She placed the tongs down on a white side plate—another item not part of his rental property’s mismatched china and crappy pots and pans.

  “I brought them with me this morning. You can use them while you’re here.”

  “I can get by with the cast iron pan and a couple of pots.”

  “I threw them all out in the shed.” She looked down her nose at him.

  “What? Why?”

  Actually, he’d planned to do the same thing. Petty of him to hate admitting she was right.

  “Mouse poop.” Her lip curled. “And you couldn’t do squat with those awful, cheap pots.”

  “I won’t be hosting a formal dinner party.” He was still reeling over everyone showing up this morning. “They’re yours?”

  She opened the oven door, transferring the strips of bacon onto a waiting tray. “Yep.”

  “Taking the Good Samaritan act too far, aren’t you?”

  And why his mouth still spoke Assholish instead of saying thanks, he had no idea. He wasn’t used to little kindnesses. Kinda creeped him out.

  She straightened, shutting the oven door. “Gift horse, mouth, don’t look. Mean anything to you?”

  He grunted and shook his head. “You’re not using them?”

  “No, they’ve been in storage since I moved out of Kezia’s spare room. I don’t need them while I’m staying at Due South, so I thought you’d appreciate something decent for a few weeks.”

  “You were living with Kezia?”

  “Until she and Ben got together. Before that, I shared a place with Holly after I’d come back from Invercargill. Before my course, I was at home with Mum.”

  “You’ve never lived by yourself?”

  “What can I say? I’m an extrovert. I like being around people, and for a long time I needed to be around the house for Mum.” She pressed her lips together, as if she’d said too much.

  “After your dad died.”

  “Yeah. Somebody had to pick up the pieces.” She smiled at him tightly, the shadows in her eyes making her appear far older than her years. “Mum couldn’t cope with even the simplest of things for a long time, so I took over the cooking. It helped. Her—and me.” She shot him a pointed look. “You’ll need to cook while you’re here, Del. You can’t not cook. Trust me, I know.”

  An icy fist locked onto his spine. Couple of days without kitchen therapy and he’d go as crazy as that bird out there.

  Del moved around the counter, careful not to en
croach in her space. He hated it on the odd times he’d friends over for a meal and they insisted on hovering, staring as if he was a magician about to produce a bunny from a hat.

  Cooking wasn’t magic, it was part of him—it was his purpose, it was like fucking breathing. A magician could choose to stop performing tricks; Del couldn’t imagine a life without a pan in one hand and a knife in the other. Some days, he wondered if cooking was the only thing keeping him from drowning in the bottom of a bottle.

  He rolled his shoulders. Lighten up, Delly. He had that under control now.

  “So your mum’s doing okay?”

  “Much better.” She dumped the mushrooms into a six-inch pan. “She’s got all three of her chicks on the island, and with Piper’s and Ben’s weddings to plan—she’s in maternal-heaven.”

  “And you’re bridesmaid for both.”

  Pretty hazel eyes rolled to the ceiling. “Oh, you’re not starting with that dreadful cliché about bridesmaids, are you?”

  “The last single Harland girl…” He grinned.

  “Who is quite happy to wait for her Mr. Perfect, thanks.” Shaye picked up a wooden spoon to stir the mushrooms.

  Was she for real? Mr. Perfect? “You expecting him to show up any time soon?”

  “I keep telling her to settle for a Mr. Gotta-job-and-all-his-teeth,” Piper said from behind him. “But, you know, she’s choosy.”

  Shaye arrowed a ball-shriveling stare over his shoulder. “You didn’t pick that knuckle-cracking, trivia nerd Shane Martin at Police College, so why should I settle for less than Mr. Perfect?”

  Piper nudged him in the ribs. “Tell her she should give Kip another chance. He’s a nice guy. Dare I say a perfect guy?”

  Kip was a nice guy. A friendly, good-looking-in-a-non-gay-way kinda guy. And still Del’s gut twisted at the thought of Kip kissing Shaye. Or putting his suave, I can mix you a Slippery Nipple hands on her. Del braced his spine. He’d no right to even an ounce of possessiveness. Kip was a hell of a lot closer to perfect than Del’d ever be.

  “Maybe he is,” he said through lips that felt tighter than a crossbow. “I hope you find your Mr. Perfect, Shaye.”