Cute lines formed on Savannah’s brow. “Would he really not understand?”
“You don’t know my dad. He’s like Granddad—all about working smart, working hard, and that the arts are for hippies.”
Savannah glanced over at Glen and he tipped a shoulder forward.
“Pretty much word for word on the lectures Dad gave me when I was a kid.”
Only phrased more harshly. He studied her pinched mouth, her softened gaze resting on Tom’s shoulders, hunched defensively over his instrument.
“Did you know Gran was a poet?” Glen said.
His nephew’s head jerked up. “Gran? My gran?”
“Yep. She had lots of lined notebooks, the kind you use at school—nothing fancy for her silly scribbles, she once said to me. She kept them stashed in her craft room, and she never wrote while your granddad was around. It was her thing. She only told me about them when she found a couple of my notebooks full of story ideas under my mattress.”
Tom snickered. “You couldn’t be a normal teen and have porn hidden there.”
Savannah elbowed Tom in the ribs, and his eyebrows winged up in a what-did-I-say? arch.
“Oh, I had dirty magazines too.” Glen chuckled. “But it was the notebooks that interested her. She asked me about them one morning while we were alone in the house. I admitted to her that I wanted to be a writer. Afterwards, she showed me her poems and asked me not to tell anyone else about them.”
Savannah braced her hands on her knees and leaned forward. “Meaning your father?”
“Yeah.” The breath in his lungs transformed to misted acid, burning through him. “Mum died of a brain aneurysm a few years later.”
“I’m sorry,” Savannah said. “I didn’t realize you’d lost your mum.”
“It was a long time ago.” Glen studied Tom’s fingers gripping the guitar’s neck. “But unlike your grandfather, Tom, she would’ve encouraged you to keep the creative part of yourself alive.”
“I don’t understand why they’re so anti.” Tom hopped off the workbench and stalked over to his guitar case. “Why Granddad wouldn’t let you do creative writing at university, why my dad would shit bricks if I said I wanted to do music instead of a real profession.”
“Your granddad isn’t all wrong. He wanted your dad and me, and your aunty Grace, to grow into responsible, independent people who could support themselves financially. A career in the arts, especially in a small country like New Zealand, doesn’t guarantee a means to support yourself.”
Tom slammed his guitar case shut. He directed his pleading gaze to Savannah. “You succeeded—did your parents support you?”
The tendons in Sav’s throat resembled taut wires. “Yeah, while I was a kid. I did all the usual ballet and tap classes, drama club, speech training—my mum ran me from one place to another after school. She made my costumes for school plays and encouraged me to try out for auditions.”
“And your father?” Glen asked.
Everything in him focused on Savannah; the flickering shift of her jaw muscles, the skin whitening on her knuckles as she gripped the edge of the workbench.
“My dad was an Air New Zealand pilot and away overseas a lot. But he never complained about the lessons I took, and even when my parents divorced and he moved to London”—her gaze slid to Glen then darted back to Tom—“he never discouraged me from wanting to act.”
Before Tom could say anything, Savannah continued.
“But Glen has a point. It is hard to have a career in the arts. Most of the other drama students in my year work in other industries now. I was a freak—a lucky freak—and I got an opportunity starting out that many others didn’t. But if I’d blown that opportunity, I would’ve been screwed, as I left drama school without finishing my degree.”
“Yeah, well, at least you got to pick drama school instead being groomed for law,” said Tom. “At least your parents didn’t try to turn you into a boring clone.”
Savannah’s lips curled into a sad smile. “You want the truth? By the time I graduated, my parents didn’t give a crap what I did. My mum couldn’t see past her divorce, and my dad had two kids with his new wife. So long as I didn’t end up on the streets or in drug rehab, he didn’t care.”
Her breaths came choppily, and as self-absorbed as teenagers could be, even Tom seemed to grasp the topic was a sensitive one.
“It’s an unenviable position you’re in, Tom,” Glen said, since Savannah’s mouth had clamped into a rigid line. “And you can roll your eyes until they pop out, but the fact is you’re young, and you’ve got plenty of time to decide what you want to do. Perhaps it’ll be music”—he shrugged—“or science, because you have an interest there too. Your decisions now aren’t set in concrete. You’ve got people who love you, people who’ll support you no matter what road you follow first. You can always change course later on.”
Tom picked up his guitar case. “You mean I should sell out and settle for the mundane?”
The unspoken like you did echoed in the silence.
Beside him, Savannah sucked in a ragged breath. Glen shoved his hands into his pockets, his gaze never shifting from Tom’s defiant stare.
His interaction with his nephews should’ve prepared him for their uncanny instinct of finding the location of an adults’ Achilles’ heel.
“Nobody’s talking about selling out. I’m telling you, you have choices.”
Tom’s expression shuttered, as if the boy braced himself for one of Jamie’s intensely delivered lectures.
“Whatever.”
Glen forced his numb lips into a grin to try to defuse the tension zipping back and forth. “Yeah, whatever. So go on back to the house; I made you lunch.”
“What sort of lunch?”
“Pancakes. They’re keeping warm in the oven.”
“Sweet.” Tom headed for the door at a trot, pausing in the doorway. “Oh, and thanks, Savannah.”
“No problem,” she said.
“Uh, Glen…after I do a couple hours study, is it okay if I walk down to Nate’s? He mentioned working on a pulley system for the tree house.”
“Sure. We’ll call it a practical application of physics.”
“Physics? Jeez,” Tom muttered and left.
After Tom went, Glen dragged his hands through his hair, tilting back his head to stare at the roof. “Were we that bad as teenagers?”
Savannah lifted her legs on top of the workbench and wrapped her arms around her knees. “God. That makes us sound old.”
“I feel old. Old and pissed off that my brother can’t see what a bloody amazing kid he has.”
“Tom loves him.”
“Yep. And Jamie loves him back, but he just doesn’t know who Tom is.”
“Knowing is a two-way street. Tom has to be willing to let his dad see who he really is. That’s damn scary for a teenager.”
“Damn scary for anyone.”
She cocked her head. “Ever let your dad see who you were?”
“You mean, is Tom’s implication correct? Did I sell out?” He grimaced. “Yeah, I pretty much did. After Mum died, the fight to pen the great New Zealand fantasy novel died too. I took a gap year and backpacked through Asia and Europe, the biggest show of rebellion I’d ever staged against my father. By the time I returned to Auckland, I’d changed. Witnessing what life was like for people in third world countries and seeing the destruction of the world’s most precious resources, I thought I’d found a way to stomach following my father and brother into law.” He laughed, a bitter, cracked sound that no one would mistake for a sign of humor. “Anyway. All this sharing is making my estrogen levels skyrocket. I need to get back to my book.”
“Will that help in working off your mad?”
His gaze slipped to her butt filling out the seat of her jeans.
She must’ve caught his sneak peak, because her mouth curled knowingly. “You could come for a run with me, burn off some of your frustration with exercise.”
“That’s
not the first example of ‘burning off frustration’ that comes to mind.”
“Oh?” Her eyebrows lifted in exaggerated innocence. “It’s not?”
“About a fifteen-minute walk away in the bush there’s a natural swimming hole. How about you and I go for a swim while Tom’s at Nate’s?”
“You do realize it’s not summer? The water’ll be freezing.”
“Yep. But it’s more fun than a cold shower.”
Her lips twitched, the soft fullness of them causing another part of his anatomy to react the same way.
“I suppose you think we’ll go skinny dipping.”
“Entirely up to you. I’m wearing shorts—minimizing the risk of you laughing at any shrinkage.”
Her eyes danced, and he hoped that the weight of her unpleasant memories had begun to lift.
“You in?” he asked. “It’ll help work off the lunch I made you.”
“Pancakes?”
His gut clenched briefly at the lustful flare in her eyes. A man—or a woman—should be free to have a pancake without counting bloody calories. “Smoked salmon salad, sorry.”
The flare of lust faded, and she jumped down from the work bench. “That’s very kind. I’ll cook dinner tonight.”
He must’ve made a small sound of disbelief, because she punched his arm. Hard.
“Hey, I can cook.”
The temptation to kiss her until one of them cried “uncle” was overwhelming. So he took a giant step away, pretending to avoid another blow—when really, her fist had injected pure lust into his system. Sav—his recreational drug of choice.
“Just for that”—a finger stabbed in his direction—“I’m shoving you into that freezing water when we get to the pools.”
Then Savannah snatched up her script and flounced out of the barn.
Chapter 11
Somehow, Savannah’s nervousness about this swimming trip rivaled how she usually felt the week before the Golden Globe nominees were announced. So, while Glen hammered away at the keyboard, and Tom completed his promised after-lunch study, Savannah tried to decide what to wear.
Ridiculous, really. They’d salvaged most of her possessions out of Daisy before she was hauled away—including a swim suit and bikini. She stood in the master bedroom in front of the chest of drawers half filled with her clothes—Glen having insisted she keep her stuff there instead of dumped on the office floor.
Now she dithered, twitchy and unsettled. One piece costume? She held it up to her body, glancing in the full-length mirror.
“Hi,” she said to her reflection. “I’m Ms. Don’t-touch-my-tits, and I only intend on swimming.” She switched to the bikini. “Hi. I’m Ms. Easy-access, and I intend to get laid.”
Savannah groaned and threw both swimsuits onto the bed.
“Bye, Sav,” shouted Tom, and the front door slammed.
Crap. That was her cue to make up her mind. Stern or slutty? Savannah stripped off her clothes and waited for inspiration.
A knock on the door. “You ready?”
Inspiration in the form of a sexy-voiced male.
“Just getting changed,” she said.
Stern or slutty? Stern or slutty?
A low chuckle flowed over her bare skin. “I’m calling swimsuits optional.”
“Like hell.” But she reached for the bikini and tugged on the bottoms.
Slutty, then.
Another laugh. “Meet you outside in five.”
He was waiting on the deck with bottles of water and towels when she finally emerged, wearing the bikini with running shorts and a tee. For the first time since she’d arrived in Bounty Bay, self-consciousness blossomed into ugly blooms. Not because she was shy about showing some skin—you couldn’t be in her line of work and not deal with your own physicality—but because now when Glen looked at her, she wondered who he saw. Looking in the mirror some days, even she didn’t know who the woman was staring back.
Ah, would the real Savannah please stand up?
“You know where the pools are?” she said as they stepped off the deck and headed down the driveway.
“Nate gave me directions when I first got up here. It’s not far.”
“Famous last words.”
He grinned over at her, linking their fingers. “Don’t worry. Like all men, I have an uncanny sense of direction.”
Her insides gave a hot little squeeze at the feel of his hand in hers, the simple sweetness of the gesture momentarily leaving her speechless.
Glen stopped beside a small path cutting away from the driveway and leading down through a thick grove of trees. “I’m man enough to ask for directions if I do get us lost.”
Light and shadows dappled over the white tee shirt spread tightly over his chest and shoulders, down to swimming trunks that sat low on his hips. The scent of his sun-warmed skin and the rich, earthy vegetation overwhelmed her senses.
She swallowed past a dust-dry throat. “Who would you ask for directions in the middle of the bush?”
Glen ducked under a tree branch and stole a kiss—more a tempting appetizer than a real kiss.
“You’ll just have to trust me.” He tugged her down the over-grown path. “C’mon.”
They followed the path downhill, keeping close to a barbed wire and wooden stake fence that kept the neighbor’s free-range cattle from straying onto Savannah’s land.
They trekked to the sounds of a slow-moving stream, buzzing insects and twittering fantails keeping them company. They pushed through giant punga fronds and avoided the hook-shaped thorns on the spindly branches of another plant that Glen told her with a grin was nicknamed “Lawyer vine”. Water sounds grew louder as the trickling stream flowed faster downhill.
“Lucky we had all that rain.” Glen offered a guiding hand down a particularly steep bank dotted with gnarled tree roots. “Nate said the pools are better then.”
A thick cluster of spindly manuka opened up into a small clearing.
“Oh,” Savannah breathed. “It’s so pretty.”
A low waterfall tumbled over mossy river stones into a pool of deep green. It wasn’t a huge pool, perhaps twice the size of an enormous spa, but after the fifteen minute walk through the afternoon heat, it looked inviting. A large, flat rock jutted part way out over the water, and they dropped their towels and bottles there.
Glen stripped off his shirt in one fluid movement. Bent over and untying her shoe laces, she froze.
“What?”
He’d caught her gaze on all those lickable inches of tanned flesh. The shifting light filtering through the trees seemed to make his sword tattoo dance.
Goose bumps popped out on her skin, though she hadn’t dipped a toe into the water. God, he was stunning. Standing there in only his shorts, which hung indecently low on his lean hips. Glen wasn’t obnoxiously buff like some of the men she’d worked with, their abdominal muscles ridged so tightly you could bounce tennis balls off them. She kicked off her shoes, dragging her gaze from the streak of dark hair low on Glen’s flat stomach. No, he wasn’t ripped, but dear Lord… She wanted to climb him like a tree and sink her teeth into the spot where his neck met the strong hump of shoulder muscles.
“You okay?” He took a step toward her, extending his hand.
What he planned to do with that hand she didn’t dare find out, since the urge to jump him then and there dominated her thoughts.
“Eels!” She yelped and hopped out of reach.
If she hadn’t been so tied up in knots trying to smother both nerves and the throb of blood filling out her erogenous zones, she would’ve laughed at the way Glen’s face crumpled.
“What? Where?” He whirled to peer into the water, giving her a prime viewing opportunity of the, most, amazing, ass.
“Thought I saw one. Be a pal and check it out.” Savannah gave him a not-so-gentle shove that tipped him into the pool.
Water splashed over her toes, and she danced backward—just in time, as Glen surged back out of the water, shaking himself like a
wet dog. He propped his upper body on the sun-warmed rock, leaving his lower half dangling in the water.
“You,” he said, blue eyes glittering beneath dripping hair, “are gonna suffer payback for that. Strip.”
Her nipples tightened painfully under her shirt, as if she was the one doused in cold stream water.
“I’m rethinking the swimming thing,” she said, stalling. Stalling, because as soon as she removed her shirt, it would be obvious how much he affected her. “I’m sure I saw an eel. You should just hang out in there by yourself for a bit longer, see if one bites you on the butt.”
He grinned, wide and as sexy as hell. Water dribbled down his face, dripped off his lips. “There’s only one eel in this pool, and he doesn’t bite. Much.” He launched himself higher on the rock, the corded muscles of his arms defined with all his weight resting on them. “Now strip before I’m forced to toss you into the pool, clothes and all.”
“You wouldn’t.”
Glen arched an eyebrow.
He would; he really would.
Savannah wriggled the shorts down her hips and kicked them off, then tugged up the tee shirt so it covered her radioactively hot face. Conscious of every second passing as she wrestled the shirt over her head, his hungry gaze tracking her from head to toe, Savannah shivered, as if a physical weight lifted from her shoulders. While some nerves remained, the type of nerves had changed—from doubt into pleasurable anticipation.
She dropped the shirt, her heart fluttering so fast it almost grew wings and burst from her chest. “If you want me, come and get me.”
His grin turned wicked. Glen climbed onto the rock, board shorts clinging to his long thighs, water streaming down his chest and legs.
“You want to play.”
It wasn’t a question, and his rough voice devastated her composure. Yeah, she wanted to play, and he knew exactly what kind of game.
He moved in close but didn’t touch any part of her. Rays of sunshine sizzled on her bare skin. She was hot. God, so hot. A pulse bumped, throbbed, at the base of his throat, and the chill emanating off him seemed to evaporate in the heat she’d generated.
Know Your Heart: A New Zealand Enemies to Lovers Romance (Far North Series Book 2) Page 17
