Swept Away by the Seductive Stranger

by Amy Andrews

  He’d come here hoping to break the cycle of mental self-flagellation, hoping to shrug off the old skin and grow a new one. A better one. A thicker one.

  Deep down he hadn’t thought that possible.

  But as Thursday rocked around and he was lazily appreciating Luci’s garden as he sipped his coffee, he was beginning to think it was very much possible. He was even beginning to think it was possible that he and Felicity could be friends.

  At work it seemed possible anyway. They were getting on well and it was easy to keep her straight in his head in a place where she was so clearly ‘the nurse’. From what she wore to how people treated her to what they called her, everything existed to create that mental barrier.

  Everyone called her Flick and every day she was dressed in the same navy pants and polo shirt as the other staff, her hair pulled into the same low ponytail. People spoke to her with both respect and affection. At work she was Flick and through tacit agreement they didn’t talk about the train or that weird moment in the car on Saturday. They kept things professional, and it worked.

  Even the art show tonight was kept in perspective when both Bill and Julia as well as Angela and about a dozen of his patients were also attending. Yes, she’d invited him and he was going with her but it was merely an act of kindness extended to the newbie in town.

  It was the embodiment of country hospitality. An invitation that could have been issued by any one of the practice employees. But it had been issued by her. By Flick. And he was looking forward to it immensely.

  * * *

  Unfortunately it wasn’t Flick who picked him up. It was most definitely Felicity. In that little black dress from the train. Or maybe it wasn’t the exact one. But it was similar. Figure-hugging, a great glimpse of cleavage, a very distracting bow on the side that looked like it might be the way in—and out.

  Okay. Not the one from the train—he’d have remembered that bow.

  Did she know how tempting that damn bow was? Had she done it on purpose? He supposed there weren’t a lot of places or events in Vickers Hill that required dressing up so why wouldn’t she when she had the chance? It was obvious from the train that she was as partial to getting all girly as the next woman.

  He just wished she’d chosen the light and summery look from the weekend when she’d taken him to lunch at the winery. The whole girl-next-door thing suited her.

  There was nothing girl-next-door about this dress.

  Not the figure-hugging, not the cleavage, not the sexy high heels. Not that damn bow or the sway of her hips or the swing of her long, loose hair. This was a Pavlov’s dog dress.

  And he was salivating like crazy.

  It certainly drove out the mushrooming frustration he’d felt as he’d waited to be picked up like some teenager who’d had his keys taken off him by his parents. The black cloud that had been building all afternoon had blown right away as he’d opened the door, and by the time he’d slid into the car seat beside her, it was long gone.

  Music, low and sweet, flared to life on the radio as she started the engine. Her bangles jingled. Her perfume enveloped him, filling his head with her scent and a string of bad ideas.

  ‘You look...lovely,’ he said as she smiled at him.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She reached for her seat belt but not before he saw a tiny slip in that smile, a slight dimming of the sparkle in her eyes as she buckled up.

  Had she been hoping for more?

  Unfortunately, lovely was about as polite as he could get right now. The next level up was sexy. The one after that was not for polite company.

  He was okay with being friends. He understood the reasons for it and thought it was doable. But he wasn’t stupid enough to deny there was the possibility of a very different relationship if they chose to go down that path.

  Which they hadn’t.

  ‘I’m worried about Lizzy Dunnich,’ she said, as she drove off.

  Callum dragged his mind out of his—and her—pants. It was hard to concentrate on shop talk when she looked like the woman from the train, but at least it would help him to keep the division between the two very different women straight in his head.

  ‘Is she unwell?’ Felicity had obviously decided to keep her on her home-visit schedule after she’d seen her last week.

  ‘No. Nothing specific I can pinpoint. Just a feeling. Like Alf says, she’s just really withdrawn. But Bailey—that’s their Labrador—has taken to not leaving her side. I’m worried he knows something we don’t.’

  Callum hadn’t owned a dog, growing up, and they’d never come into his realm of practice when he’d been putting on a pair of scrubs every morning, but he’d read enough anecdotal evidence about the canine-human connection to understand why Felicity was worried.

  ‘You think she might be...’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The white of her knuckles around the steering wheel drew his attention. My people, she’d called them that day she’d finally exploded at him for his poor connection with the patients.

  And Mrs Dunnich was one of them.

  ‘She’s eighty-six,’ he said gently, staring at her profile. ‘And she’s already had one stroke.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said again, her eyes glued to the road.

  He wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know. Lizzy Dunnich didn’t have a whole lot of ticks in her column.

  But this one felt close to him too.

  As a surgeon he’d had patients die. The last one, not long before his accident, had been a fifty-eight-year-old woman who’d presented with a dissecting abdominal aortic aneurysm. They’d rushed her to Theatre but he hadn’t been able to stem the haemorrhage.

  Her death had been a professional loss—not a personal one. He hadn’t known the woman. He hadn’t eaten home-made rhubarb tartlets from her family recipe. He hadn’t met her husband. Telling him had been as awful as it always was, but his scheduled theatre list had been severely disrupted because of the emergency and he’d still had three more patients to deal with so the death had been quickly filed under ‘Impossible save’, as triple As too often were.

  ‘Why don’t I drop by on Saturday and see them? I’m on call so—’

  ‘Oh, would you?’ she interrupted, her voice charged with hope.

  ‘Of course.’

  Her exhalation was noisy in the confines of the car. ‘Thank you,’ she said, glancing at him quickly before returning her attention to the road.

  Callum’s night vision might be rubbish but he could still see the shine of unshed tears in her eyes. He’d never met a woman who wore her emotions so openly. Once upon a time that would have made him want to run as far away as possible.

  Tonight it made him want to pull her closer.

  * * *

  Felicity was still stewing over the word lovely when they arrived at the art show. She shouldn’t be. Callum’s offer to see Mrs Dunnich should be dominating her thoughts and she should still be grateful for that but somehow his lovely resonated the most.

  Now she understood his dismay that day when she’d described their time on the train as lovely. It was such an...insipid word.

  It shouldn’t bother her. They were friends and attracting Callum wasn’t her aim.

  Absolutely not.

  She’d worn the dress for herself. Because she didn’t get the opportunity to dress up very often and everyone else would be making the effort. Because she was single and one day she hoped not to be—Mr Right could be in Drayton’s Crossing. Because rocking a little black dress was a marvellous thing and putting one on one of life’s great joys. Like sexy lingerie and expensive chocolate.

  She’d worn the dress for herself, damn it.

  But then Callum had said ‘lovely’ and she’d realised she might have possibly, somewhere deep in her subconscious, w
orn it for him...

  ‘There’s Bill and Angela,’ Callum said, his hand at her elbow.

  Felicity looked around the transformed space. It had Veronica’s artistic signature all over. Gone was the quaint hundred-year-old farmers’ hall and in its place was a high-class bordello. Hundreds of metres of rich burgundy velvet were draped artfully overhead and lined the walls to form a dramatic backdrop to the paintings. There was a heavy reliance on gold brocade, plush velvet chaises and art deco standing lamps covered with red chiffon shawls to create a seductive pink glow.

  Curvy women dressed in corsets and fishnet circulated with trays of champagne and canapés amongst the crowd milling around the paintings.

  It was hard to believe this was little old Drayton’s Crossing. It could be in any posh city gallery anywhere in the world, and while she knew about three-quarters of the people in the room, there were certainly some she didn’t recognise. Probably from Adelaide. Veronica’s art was highly sought after and her exhibitions, regardless of location, were always well attended.

  ‘You want champagne?’

  The fine hairs on Felicity’s nape prickled as Callum’s voice, low and close to her ear to be heard over the noise, did funny things to her equilibrium. She was conscious of his presence behind her. His bulk, his heat, the waft of his citrusy aftershave. The warmth of his breath on her temple.

  Her eyelids fluttered closed, she swayed a little as she fought the urge to lean back. Let herself drape against him.

  And wouldn’t that just give everybody something more to gossip about?

  They weren’t in a city gallery somewhere. They were in Drayton’s Crossing, for Pete’s sake.

  Felicity locked her quads and cleared her throat. ‘Yes, please.’ Anything to remove the temptation of him from her orbit long enough to get back some control.

  ‘Be right back,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t go away.’

  Not much chance of that with legs as useless as two wet noodles.

  She watched him go. Somehow he seemed more hip, cool, stylish and sexy than any other guy in the room—even the arty types who clearly weren’t from these parts. He was wearing a suit the colour of roasted Arabica beans that he’d teamed with a purple shirt, left open at the neck. No tie.

  He looked the ultimate in casual, urban chic. And the way those trousers pulled across his butt as he walked away should be utterly illegal.

  There was nothing lovely about it.

  By the time he came back, Felicity was talking to an old friend from Vickers Hill and she was on much more steady ground. In fact, for the rest of the night, as they went from painting to painting, there was always someone she knew, someone to introduce Callum to and mingle with to prevent them from being alone.

  Because they needed to avoid that at all costs. She wasn’t stupid, she could tell people were openly curious, watching them and their every move. It was why she tried extra hard to project a friendly, collegial discourse between them.

  She was careful about her stance and other nonverbal cues, she kept the conversation about the paintings and suppressed the urge to touch him, which was surprisingly difficult. She’d never realised how tactile she was in conversation until she had to physically stop herself a dozen times from touching Callum’s arm.

  She seriously deserved an award for her portrayal of just-friends-nothing-to-see-here-move-along-please.

  Finally, she got to introduce him to Veronica. Felicity had been trying to get to her all night but her friend had been swamped with both buyers and well-wishers.

  ‘V.,’ Felicity said with a smile as her friend enveloped her in an enthusiastic, champagne-slopping hug. ‘This is fabulous. You must be so pleased.’

  ‘Absolutely thrilled, darl.’ Big hoop earrings matched wild brown curls and the whole kaftan-alternative vibe Veronica had going on. Not for the first time, Felicity wished she oozed the same brash sexiness that was like a second skin for Veronica.

  ‘I’ve sold just about every painting. Reckon the Clare Valley fire service will get about fifty k out of their cut by the end of the night.’

  ‘That’s amazing. They’ll be giving you the keys to the valley next time you’re home,’ Felicity teased.

  One of the things she most loved about Veronica was that she hadn’t lost her connection with her roots. Her artwork may be hung in galleries around the world but at heart she was a small-town girl.

  ‘As long as they’re able to open every cellar door in the district then I’m fine with that.’ Veronica laughed in her disarmingly self-deprecating way before turning her attention to Callum. ‘Well, hello, there,’ she said, as Felicity took a nervous sip of her remaining champers. ‘So you’re the guy she’s doing.’

  Felicity almost inhaled her drink at the outrageous statement. ‘V.,’ Felicity warned, coughing and spluttering on the bubbles that had almost gone down the wrong way as Callum threw back his head and laughed, seemingly unconcerned.

  ‘What?’ Veronica asked with a faux aura of innocence. ‘All I was going to say is I approve, darling.’ She eyed Callum up and down. ‘If you’ve got to be in trouble with the town, might as well make it worth your while.’ She held her hand out to Callum. ‘Hi, I’m V.’

  ‘Callum.’

  ‘Callum, huh?’ Veronica shook her head. ‘You look like a Cal to me.’

  Callum grinned and Felicity wanted to stomp on his foot. ‘I get that as well.’

  ‘I bet you do, darl.’ Veronica laughed, tapping his shoulder lightly. She switched her attention to Felicity. ‘He’s good in bed, right? I can just tell.’

  Felicity glanced around, hoping nobody was eavesdropping. She’d forgotten how outrageous Veronica could be. She had no filter and lived to scandalise.

  ‘I am not doing him.’ Felicity hissed, while Callum—Cal—chuckled some more. Which was true. Currently, she wasn’t. ‘The gossips have got it wrong as usual.’

  ‘Well, you should make it right,’ Veronica murmured, her gaze eating Callum up again. ‘If you can’t beat them, darling, you might as well join them.’

  Felicity was beginning to regret introducing them. Veronica’s attention was a little too lascivious for her liking as a spike of something that felt very much like jealousy prodded Felicity in the chest.

  Thankfully she noticed a couple heading their way with an artistic fever in their eyes, clearly intent on monopolising the artiste for as long as Veronica was willing to put up with them. ‘Oh, look,’ Felicity said, tipping her chin at the approaching zealots, ‘Buyers incoming. Don’t let us keep you.’

  She shot her insanely vibrant and attractive friend a sweet smile as she seized Callum’s arm and pulled him away. Veronica laughed, clearly neither fooled nor insulted, blowing a couple of quick air kisses before turning her attention on her fans.

  They ended up in a corner, near a standing lamp emanating a very distracting pink glow. The crowd had thinned slightly, which enabled them to have a little more privacy.

  Not that that had been the objective.

  She had no idea what to say to Callum after Veronica’s directness. At least everyone else had been discreet about their curiosity. She slugged back the dregs of her champers and immediately wished she could swig another. But as she was driving she grabbed a soda water off a passing tray instead. Callum snagged a beer.

  Felicity sipped and wondered whether she should mention Veronica at all—apologise for her maybe. Explain she lived to scandalise. But frankly she was still too embarrassed to head down that track.

  ‘V. seems like a hoot.’

  Well. That was settled, then. Looked like they were going to talk about her whether she wanted to or not. ‘She is. Sorry about that. She loves to shock people.’

  He shook his head, tracking Veronica’s movements. ‘I think she’s fabulous.’

  Felicity nodded. Yes.
He would. Veronica was probably much more his type than she was. She could imagine him back before his injury with someone delightfully brash and flirty like Veronica. Someone who was socially outgoing, confident in herself and her sexuality.

  ‘She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? So out there and...’ Felicity cleared her throat of the sudden husky stricture threatening to close it right off ‘...sexy.’

  His head swivelled in Felicity’s direction, one eyebrow cocked. ‘Sexy, huh?’

  Heat suffused her face as he studied her like he was seeing her through new eyes, his gaze drawing her in as if they were the only two people in the room. ‘A woman can appreciate sexiness in another woman,’ she said, a defensive streak in her voice a mile wide.

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘I totally agree. It’s a kinda sexy thing to admit, actually.’

  So she was sexy now instead of lovely?

  Heat flared between them. She suddenly wished they were the only two people in the room. The thought was nine parts thrilling, one part panic inducing. She couldn’t afford to lose her head in front of all these people and lose all the ‘just mates’ groundwork she’d laid over the last hour or so.

  ‘Who, me?’ she murmured, keeping her voice low and silky. ‘Impossible. I’m lovely, remember?’

  ‘Ah.’ He chuckled, his lips twitching on the rim of his glass before he took a mouthful of beer. ‘Sorry about that. It was a bad word choice.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said, the irritation from earlier returning with a vengeance as she mimicked what he’d said that day they’d visited Meryl. ‘You could have said nice.’

  He glanced around before his gaze drifted to her mouth. ‘Trust me, it was cleaner than what I was really thinking.’

  The low admission rumbled from his lips and stroked her in all the good places. She should just leave that alone. But some devil inside her wanted to know what he thought of her black dress.

  ‘Oh?’ She hoped the vibrato in her voice didn’t betray how very badly she needed to know.

  ‘It’s not really for...’ he looked around again before returning his gaze to hers, lowering his head and leaning in slightly as his voice went down a register ‘...polite company.’