“Excuse me for caring.”
Brent sounded pissed now. Oliver ran his hand through his hair.
“I appreciate the sentiment, okay? But you don’t need to babysit me.”
“Sure. I’ll speak to you later.” Brent hung up.
Oliver congratulated himself on being a dick. Brent was a good guy. A little fussy sometimes, but maybe that came with the territory when you were the older brother. Rewarding his concern with smart-assery was a kid’s way of dealing with an uncomfortable situation.
Jamming his hands into his coat pockets, Oliver promised himself he’d call Brent tomorrow. He surveyed the garden, looking for Strudel before he headed into the house. He frowned when he saw her doing the doggy meet-and-greet routine with the neighbor’s dachshund.
“How did you get over here?” He glanced at the fence that separated the two properties. It was silver with age, but it looked solid enough. Obviously there must be a hole somewhere.
“Strudel. Come here, girl. Come here.”
His normally obedient schnauzer didn’t so much as glance in his general direction. She was too busy canoodling with her new best friend, sniffing and dancing around and generally being coy.
Oliver went after her, scanning the fence line as he walked. Sure enough, he found a half-rotted board and a hole that was sufficiently large for a determined dachshund to gain entrance.
“Party’s over, buddy.” He reached down to scoop up the dachshund. The dog wriggled desperately, but Oliver kept a tight grip, only releasing him when he’d arrived at the fence. He squatted, pointed the dog at the hole and stood guard until the sausage dog had wiggled into his own yard. There were a few loose bricks in the garden bed nearby and Oliver used them to build a blockade. He’d patch the hole properly later, but the makeshift barrier should keep Romeo out in the interim.
He returned to the house and did a thorough tour of each room, making notes on the work that needed to be done. He’d reached the kitchen when he realized Strudel had disappeared. He checked the living room, sure he’d find her making herself at home on the overstuffed couch. She wasn’t there, however.
He glanced outside as he returned to the kitchen. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the dachshund planted at the bottom of the exterior steps.
Bloody hell. Houdini had done it again.
He found Strudel sitting at the door, gaze fixed longingly on the handle, almost as though she was willing it to turn. He had no idea how she knew that her furry friend had come calling, but clearly she did.
“You can do much better, girl,” he said. “He’s way too short for you.”
He went outside, Strudel hard on his heels. He watched in bemusement as the two dogs greeted each other with what he could only describe as the canine equivalent of a twenty-one-gun salute. Didn’t seem to matter that they’d seen each other less than an hour ago.
“Okay. Hate to break it up, but Houdini has to go home.”
He picked up the dachshund and carried him to the hole in the fence. To his surprise, the barricade was still intact. He followed the fence farther into the garden, squirming hound under his arm
By the time he’d reached the rear of the property he’d found another three holes, which made the dachshund more of an opportunist than an escape artist. Oliver considered the problem for a few seconds, but he really couldn’t see any alternative to biting the bullet and paying his not-very-neighborly neighbor another visit. She needed to be made aware of the issues with their shared boundary. As tempting as it was to simply attach a note to her dog’s collar and send him through one of the many holes in the fence, Oliver figured the news would probably be better received in person.
He ushered the interloper inside and clipped Strudel’s lead onto his collar. He had to practically drag the dachshund out the door, however, and he could hear Strudel whining beseechingly as he crossed to Mackenzie’s driveway. He knocked on her door, then looked down. The dog was staring up at him with sad eyes, the picture of abject misery.
“Yeah, yeah, your life is hell. I get it.”
He could hear footsteps inside the house. He braced himself for more rudeness. Mackenzie opened the door and stared at first him, then the dachshund.
“Why do you have my dog?” she asked, a frown furrowing her brow.
“Because he was in my yard. Twice. The fence between our properties is riddled with holes.”
She crouched, one hand reaching for the door frame for balance.
“Mr. Smith, what have you been up to? Have you been out making new friends?” Her tone was warm, even a little indulgent.
She knelt, rubbing the dog beneath his chin. Oliver stared at her down-turned head, noticing something through her dark, clipped hair. A white, shiny line sliced across her scalp along the side of her skull, then curled toward the front just inside her hairline.
A scar.
A pretty wicked, serious one by the looks of it.
She glanced at him. “Thanks for bringing him back.”
She wasn’t wearing a scrap of makeup. Her skin was very fair and her long, dark eyelashes stood out in dramatic contrast to her piercing blue eyes.
She unclipped the leash, then straightened. Maybe he was looking for it after seeing the scar, but it seemed to him the move wasn’t anywhere near as easy and casual as she’d like him to think. He reminded himself of the reason he was here—and it wasn’t to ferret out her secrets.
“We need to do something about the fence,” he said.
“There’s never been a problem before. Mr. Smith isn’t much of a roamer.”
“I think he’s more interested in Strudel than exploring the terrain.”
“That’s never been a problem before, either.”
His back came up. Admittedly, he’d come here primed to be annoyed because she’d been so dismissive earlier, but there was a definite tone to her words. As though somehow he and Strudel were responsible for her dog’s behavior.
“I guess times have changed. We should probably do a temporary fix and then get some quotes to have it repaired.”
The phone rang inside her house and she glanced over her shoulder. The move drew his attention to her breasts—small but perky. He gave himself a mental shake. As if he cared what her breasts looked like. They were attached to the rest of her, which was toned within an inch of its life and way too scrawny for his tastes.
“I need to get that,” she said as she refocused on him.
“Fine. But we need to deal with this fence or Mr. Smith is going to come visiting again.”
“I’m sorry, but I really need to take this call. I’ll get back to you.” There was a distracted urgency beneath her words as she reached for the knob.
He opened his mouth to protest—as the door swung shut in his face for the second time that day.
“You cannot be serious,” he told the shiny black wood.
But she was. She was also the rudest person he’d ever had the misfortune to meet. He was tempted to knock again and force her to deal with him, but he had an image of himself knocking till the cows came home and her ignoring him as she dealt with her vitally important, utterly life-transforming phone call.
He’d been de-balled quite enough by his wife’s staggering infidelity, thank you very much. He had no intention of hanging around to play the part of supplicant.
He remembered an old saying as he returned to his aunt’s house: no good turn goes unpunished.
Indeed.
CHAPTER TWO
MACKENZIE REACHED THE PHONE just as it stopped ringing. She checked caller ID and swore when she saw Gordon’s number. She’d talked to Linda earlier and managed to convince her to prompt Gordon into calling. Linda had come through—and Mackenzie had been too busy dealing with Oliver What’s-his-name to take the call.
Unbelievable.
She hit the button to return the call and prayed that Gordon hadn’t already moved on to something else. She willed him to pick up as the phone rang at the other end. She was abou
t to give in to despair when Gordon’s voice came over the line.
“Mackenzie.”
“Gordon. How are you?”
“Good enough. More importantly, how are you?”
“Getting there. Better every day.”
He grunted. She pictured him sitting at his desk in Melbourne, feet up on the corner, big belly straining at the buttons on his shirt.
“How are the headaches?” he asked.
“Better. Much better.” She didn’t mention the fact that she still struggled to spend more than a couple of hours at a time on her feet before her back started acting up and that she struggled to stay awake after eight at night.
“That’s good to hear.” He sounded distracted and she knew she wouldn’t hold his attention for long.
“Listen, Gordon, I’ve been wanting to talk to you because I know Philip’s contract is coming up for renewal.”
Philip had been brought in to fill her role while she recovered. An experienced producer, they’d been lucky to catch him between gigs.
“It is. Still got that steel-trap memory, I see.”
What she had was a heavily used calendar function on her iPhone, but he didn’t need to know that.
“So, have you spoken to him about renewing for a shorter term?” She wrapped her free arm around her torso, tension thrumming through her body as she waited for Gordon’s response.
“We haven’t had that conversation yet.”
“Right. Well, I wanted to suggest you go for three months. I’ll be more than ready to get back to it by then.”
Gordon sighed. “Mackenzie...our hands are tied here. You have to understand that.”
A chill ran down her spine. Was he saying what she thought he was saying? “What does that mean?”
“It means we can’t afford to lose him. The show needs continuity. If he won’t consider a short term, we’ll have to look at something longer. It’s a shitty situation, I know, but he’s done a great job for us.”
Mackenzie bit back the urge to remind Gordon that she’d done a great job, too, in the three years prior to the accident. She’d increased the ratings by nearly thirty percent, streamlined the story department and used her influence with her ex-husband, Patrick Langtry, to persuade him to join the cast—a move that had led to another ratings bump. Gordon knew all that, though. It simply didn’t mean anything to him while she was sidelined.
There was a reason Hunter S. Thompson had described television as “a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free and good men die like dogs.” The industry was ruthless, ratings driven and peopled with huge egos. God only knew why she’d spent the bulk of her adult life loving the hell out of it, but she had and it was where she wanted to be.
Once she was on her feet again.
“I’ll be back soon, Gordon. I’ve had some great ideas for the show, too. Something to really kick us into the new ratings period.”
“You don’t need to pitch yourself to me. I’m going to offer him a month-by-month contract. I’m not expecting him to be happy about it, and I know for a fact there are other production companies sniffing around. I’ll do my best, but you need to understand that, at the end of the day, we have to do what’s best for the show.”
Even if that meant giving away her position while she was on sick leave for injuries acquired while on the job. If she hadn’t been driving to that location shoot, she wouldn’t have had the accident. It was that simple.
She opened her mouth to remind Gordon that he was legally obliged to keep her job open for her, then closed it again without saying a word. Nobody ever got ahead at Eureka Productions by resorting to lawyers at ten paces. No one who worked behind the camera, anyway.
“Don’t worry, Mackenzie. You’ll be looked after. You’re still our little pocket rocket.”
Mackenzie bared her teeth. How she hated that offensive, patronizing nickname.
“Will you keep me in the loop?” It was a testament to her strong will that she managed to keep her voice even and her tone pleasant. No way would she give Gordon the leverage of an emotional outburst. If he recognized a weakness, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it against her. “Let me know how things go with Philip?”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“Network negotiations must be coming up soon, too. Any indication they might go for the Christmas special again this year?”
“They like to play their cards close. Listen, Mackenzie, I’d love to chat but I’ve got a meeting in ten.”
“Sure. Thanks for the call, Gordon.”
“Look after yourself, sweetheart.”
Mackenzie dropped the phone onto the coffee table and sank onto the arm of the sofa.
Shit.
If Philip played hardball and pushed to have her job permanently, there was a very real chance that she would be out in the cold.
The thought was accompanied by a flurry of panic and a stab of pain behind her right eyeball. She pressed her fingers to her temple, squeezing her eyes shut briefly before searching for painkillers. Normally she tried to get by without medication. At the worst of her recovery she’d been on so many tablets she’d had a special dispenser to keep them all straight. She’d been fuzzy headed and a step removed from the world most of the time, and she’d fought with her doctors to reduce her daily intake to the bare minimum. These days, she avoided anything that came in a foil sleeve, even a humble aspirin. But she could feel the headache building behind her eyes and knew from experience that it would snowball into something ferocious if she didn’t nip it in the bud now.
Mr. Smith pattered after her as she made her way to the bathroom. Seeing him reminded her of her new neighbor and his concerns about the hole-riddled fence. She supposed she should be more worried, but Mr. Smith was ridiculously attached to her and he’d never run away before. She figured he was simply excited about having a little buddy next door. Once the novelty had worn off he’d settle down.
Still, she should probably look into having the fence repaired, as Oliver Golden-Stubble had suggested. Not that she wanted to pour her precious, limited energy into anything unrelated to her recovery, but if it had to be done, it had to be done.
She swallowed two painkillers. A noise started up outside as she chased them with a glass of water. Someone hammering—in what sounded like her backyard. She made her way to the picture window in the living room. The noise wasn’t coming from her backyard, but the neighbor’s. Oliver was out there, working away with hammer and handsaw. Repairing their shared fence, apparently. Obviously he hadn’t been prepared to wait until they could hire a professional.
She watched him work, arms crossed over her chest. She’d never been attracted to redheaded men, but there was no denying this man’s appeal. His hair was a deep chestnut, more of a reddish-brown than a true red. As for his body... She would have cast him as a love interest on Time and Again in a heartbeat if his audition had come across her desk. He had the kind of body women fantasized over—broad shoulders, deep chest, flat belly, tight, firm little backside...
He pushed his hair out of his eyes, then turned to say something to his dog. There was a smile lurking around his mouth. Both times she’d met him she’d had the sense that he was a man who laughed easily. One of those comfortable-in-his-own-skin men. She wondered idly if he was married. He seemed like a married man to her. Hard to put her finger on why, but she usually had good instincts about that sort of thing.
He glanced up, his gaze locking with hers across twenty meters of garden and fence. Feeling caught, she took an instinctive step backward, then realized retreating only made her look guilty and furtive. She forced herself to stand her ground and hold his gaze. After a beat, he broke the contact, refocusing on his work.
She escaped to the kitchen, feeling oddly rattled. She wondered how long he planned to hang around. She hoped it wouldn’t be for long. She didn’t have time for distractions.
The painkiller was starting to make the world go fuzzy at the edges, but it didn’t
ease the panic left over from Gordon’s phone call. She returned to the living room and sat in the corner of the couch.
If she lost her job—
She clamped down on the thought. It wasn’t going to happen. She wouldn’t let it happen. That job was her life. No way was she letting it slip through her fingers.
* * *
OLIVER FIXED TWO of the holes in the fence before he’d exhausted the small stash of nails he’d had in his tool chest. He’d taken the precaution of packing it and a few power tools before he left Sydney, based on the assumption that Aunt Marion’s place might need a few hinges fixed. He hadn’t expected to be getting down and dirty on his first day.
There were still holes to patch, but he decided they could wait until tomorrow and packed his gear away for the night. He got takeout from the local Chinese restaurant and spent the evening staring into the fire he built, downing a six-pack of beer and feeling disconnected from the world in general. Since distancing himself from his old life had been the whole point of his trip, he figured he was off to a good start.
He woke to overcast skies and the realization that he should have turned on the water heater last night. An icy-cold shower left him shivering and pissy. He whistled for Strudel to get in the car then drove into town, wondering if he had a chance of getting the remaining holes in the fence repaired before it started to rain. Judging by the dark, moody-looking clouds overhead, probably not.
He spotted a small, soberly clad woman the moment he entered the hardware store. For a few seconds he thought it was his surly neighbor, then the woman turned and he saw she was much older than Mackenzie. Just as well. He wasn’t in the mood to be polite this morning. Not that Mackenzie seemed overly concerned about social niceties.
He remembered the look they’d shared across the fence yesterday as he trawled the shelves for nails. He’d felt her watching him before he’d glanced up. Not that he’d known he was being observed per se; he’d simply known that something was not quite right. And there she was, watching him from her window, a slim figure, arms wrapped tightly around herself as she studied him.
The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) Page 3
