He relaxed his hold immediately. As he placed her on her feet, she made a fist. He held up a hand. “You hit me, I’m picking you up again until you learn some manners.”
Jena tried to incinerate him with her glare. She was so cute he wanted to pat her on the head, but didn’t think that would go over well at all. He turned back to his mum.
“Did Dougal ask you to bring food? Is that it?” He reached for the bag in his mother’s hand. It was a safe bet it held food. There was steam coming out of it. He stuck his nose in the bag and breathed deeply. “Excellent.” He turned towards the kitchen. “Come on, Jena, you need to eat some real food.”
“I’m not eating. I have a dinner date, remember?” Jena shouted at him. “Does he have any mental health issues that I need to be aware of while he’s living here?” he heard Jena ask his mother, and let out a sigh.
Compared to Jena, everyone in town was sane. A minute later the women came into the kitchen after him. He felt a sense of déjà vu—didn’t he play this scene with his sisters the day before? He shrugged. He didn’t care how many members of his family came visiting, just as long as they brought food with them.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” his mother said with a cheeky grin.
Jena smiled back. “I’m calling it derelict chic.”
His mum laughed.
Matt dished out the food and his mouth watered. He bet this was better than whatever Bob served up. Jena was missing out by insisting she go on this date. He shrugged. More for him, then.
“I’m surprised Matt is staying here with this mess,” his mum said.
“That’s what the twins said too.”
“Matt could never stand being around chaos.” His mum pulled up a chair. “His bedroom at home was as neat as a pin and organised to the last inch. His sisters used to go in and move things when he was out to see if he noticed. The slightest shift and he could tell. The girls thought it was a great game, until he put a lock on his door.” His mother gave him an indulgent smile. “It’s the same with the house he has now. Everything in its place. Not a speck of dust anywhere. I swear half the time you can’t even tell he lives there.”
Jena sat back in her chair and considered him. “That sounds awfully repressed, Matt. Maybe you should get some counselling.”
“There’s nothing wrong with this brain.” Matt tapped his temple.
“I can think of at least half a dozen issues off the top of my head that would have you in therapy for decades.”
“Aye, like you would recognise normal,” he scoffed. “Most women would be ecstatic if a guy helped renovate their house. You spend your time complaining.”
“Most women would like to be asked first before the guy rips off her wallpaper and declares he’s in charge of the kitchen. I keep telling you. This is my house. Go rip off the wallpaper in your own house.”
“My house doesn’t need it. This one does. This kitchen is a biohazard. While I’m here I’m going to help you sort it. If we left it to you it’d be the last room you looked at. I want to be able to cook in a kitchen that won’t give me salmonella.”
“Well, go home and cook in your own kitchen.”
“Children.” His mother held up her hands, a look of absolute delight on her face. “This is very entertaining, but I came by to invite you both over to lunch on Sunday and to thank Jena for all the lovely flowers she’s been passing on to me.”
“Don’t mention it,” Jena said to his mum while glaring at Matt.
“We’ll be there Sunday,” Matt said at the same time.
Jena frowned at him. “What happened to it not being safe for me to socialise?”
“That didn’t stop you from accepting a date with Bob the butcher, now did it?” He gave her a smug smile. “Don’t worry, Jena, you’ll be safe at my mum’s house, because I’ll be there.” He grinned widely. “Exactly the same way I’ll be right by your side this evening at Bob’s house.”
Jena sputtered. “You can’t come with me on a date.”
Matt leaned towards her, pleased when her cheeks flushed. “Watch me.” He bit off a huge chunk of steak and chewed hard.
Jena glared at him before looking around the room. No doubt for something to lob at his head. It was a relief to see there was nothing close to hand. Matt suspected Jena Morgan had a bloodthirsty side when she let loose. He grinned. He’d quite like to see that.
“I can see you have everything in hand.” His mum stood, hung her handbag over her shoulder and smiled a little too brightly for Matt’s liking. “I’ll see you both for Sunday lunch.”
With a spring in her step, his mother let herself out of the house. Leaving him in a stare off with a very grumpy American.
10
Friday evening arrived too fast for Matt’s liking. Jena was in her bedroom getting ready for her date. Matt shook his head in disgust. Bob the bloody butcher. He was nothing more than a shallow pretty boy who knew how to charm the pants off the ladies. Matt shook his head as he cleaned up the paper strips from the kitchen floor. He’d better stay away from Jena’s pants. She had enough to deal with without fending off Bob the butcher. He stilled. She would fend him off, wouldn’t she? He shuddered. The thought that she might actually want Bob’s hands on her didn’t bear thinking about. He’d just have to remind Bob that if anyone in Invertary could get away with murder, it would be the only cop.
Matt stood back, hands on hips, and surveyed the result of all his hard work. He’d gotten most of the old paper off the walls now. All they needed was a good wash, then he could plaster and sand them ready to paint. He was thinking they’d look good painted a nice pale blue colour when he caught himself. This was Jena’s house. He should probably let her pick the colour of her kitchen.
“Okay.” Jena came into the room. “How do I look?”
Matt turned towards her and felt his heart skip a beat. Maybe two. He rubbed his hand over his chest. Yeah. Definitely irregular. He’d need to see the doc about that. Thirty-two had to be too young to suffer from heart disease. Didn’t it?
“Matt, pay attention. How do I look?” She twirled, her arms held away from her sides.
Matt’s mouth went dry. His eyes narrowed. Hell no. “You can’t wear that.”
Her smile disappeared as she looked down at herself. She had on a bronze-coloured dress, made of some silky material. There were bat-like sleeves. The neckline slid off a shoulder. He felt his anger build—was she even wearing a bra? The skirt section was a tight band across her thighs, stopping mere inches below her backside. Her skin was shimmering, her eyes were painted dark and sexy and her hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders and around her breasts. Cupping them like gentle hands. Matt forced his eyes to move on. Unfortunately, it didn’t help. Her perfect legs made him want to groan with need. He swallowed it down as he eyed her shoes. They were basically stilts. This time shimmering bronze stilts with straps that criss-crossed up her calf, tying in a bow at her knee. Her toenails were painted to match the shoes.
One look at that mini dress, and those shoes, and Bob’s focus wouldn’t be on food. No, it would be on untying the shoes, then running his hand up those shimmering legs to get to the hemline of that tight little skirt. Not happening. Not on his watch. Matt’s job was to protect Jena. And he’d damn well do it. Whether she liked it or not. He’d start by protecting her from Bob’s lecherous attention.
He pointed to the door. “Go get changed. Put on jeans and a T-shirt.” He thought about it. “A high-necked T-shirt. A loose-fitting one. And put a bloody bra on too.”
Jena gaped at him. “Are you serious?”
He folded his arms. “You can’t wear that. You’re giving out the wrong signals. You’re inviting Bob to come get you. Go get changed.”
Jena folded her arms too. She held a tiny bronze clutch bag in one hand. Her arms pulled the top of the dress tight across her breasts, and Matt felt the blood rush away from his brain. She was so not wearing that dress. Jena tapped a toe on the old linoleum floo
r, drawing his attention back to her legs, when it had taken a great deal of effort to get his attention off her legs.
“This is a date,” she said. “You dress up for a date. There is nothing wrong with my clothes. And for your information, I am wearing a bra.”
Matt’s eyes shot back to her chest. “I don’t see a bra.”
“You’re not supposed to see it, you lunatic. Now stop whatever you’re doing to my kitchen. You’re my lift and we need to go.”
“Uh-nuh, you’re not going anywhere until you change. You can’t go out like that. Do you want him all over you?” He held up a hand. “Don’t answer that. Just get something else on.”
“Donald Matthew Donaldson. Do I look like one of your sisters?” She didn’t let him reply. “No, I don’t. We are not related. You are not my big brother. You don’t get to tell me what to wear on a date. After meeting your sisters, I’m sure you don’t get to tell them either. If I want Bob’s hands all over me, then that’s my business. This is my date. Not yours. If you’re not going to take me to Bob’s house, I’ll go on my own. Or better yet, I’ll call Bob to come pick me up.”
Matt glared at her for a minute. She seemed serious. It took all of his self-control to stop from throwing her over his shoulder, stomping up to her bedroom and demanding she wear something else—even if he had to dress her himself. Instead he took a deep breath, snatched his keys off the table and stomped to the front door. “Fine. I’ll take you.”
He stopped inside the front door frame, spinning so fast that Jena fell against him.
“For the record, princess. I’m more than aware you’re not my sister.” He slowly ran his gaze down her body. “For a start, if you were my sister, I wouldn’t be thinking about what kind of underwear you have on under that dress. Or if your legs feel as silky as they look.” Matt put a hand on the small of her back and leaned in to her ear. “I definitely wouldn’t be wondering how long it would take to get you out of your dress and into my bed.” He stared down at her. “Still sure this is what you want to wear for Bob?”
He watched her eyes widen and her throat roll as she swallowed. She nodded.
He clenched his jaw at her stubbornness. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Let’s get this over with.” He released the warm woman in his arms and stalked to the driver’s side of his car.
“I can’t believe you dragged me out tonight,” Claire whined. “I don’t want to be out. I want to go home and read my new book. In bed. In my fleecy onesie. With a mug of hot chocolate and Adele playing. I don’t want to hang out at the local pub. I don’t want to socialise. I don’t want to be here. Full stop.”
“When did you get to be so boring?” Megan frowned at her. “It’s like I blinked and missed it. One minute you were my fun-loving sister. The next you want to stay in on a Friday night. Last time I checked, we were still twenty-two. Women our age don’t curl up with a book on a Friday night.”
“The smart ones do! It’s not like I’m making you suffer by staying home all the time. When was the last Friday I stayed home? Huh? Tell me that?” Claire stomped her red suede boots as Megan pulled the heavy pub door open. “You can’t answer because it was never. That’s when.”
“I see your lips move, but all I hear is blah, blah, blah.” Megan stuck her nose in the air. “Fantastic. It’s karaoke.”
Claire’s mood plummeted even further. “Great. A bunch of old people taking turns to sing ‘Stand By Your Man’.”
“Tammy Wynette. Can’t beat a classic.” Megan grinned widely. “But you can murder it when you’re tone deaf and have downed several whiskeys. Not to mention the Scottish accent lends its own unique appeal.” She scanned the room. “Ooo, front-row seats.” She grabbed an armful of Claire’s red cowl-neck sweater and dragged her towards a round table over in the corner near the toilets and, unfortunately, the makeshift stage.
“Kill me now.” Claire let out a groan.
“What do you want to drink? Kopparberg?” Megan was already heading towards the bar. Reaching into the front pocket of her tight jeans for her tiny wallet.
“Just a Coke. Diet.”
Five minutes later they had their drinks and were being tortured by the dulcet tones of eighty-seven-year-old Betty. The tartan-clad cube of a woman was singing the song she always sung on nights like this, “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy”. Unfortunately for everyone watching, she had a dance routine to go with it.
“I need to film this one week and put it on YouTube,” Megan said in Claire’s ear.
“Yeah, why should we be the only ones who suffer? Let’s spread it around.”
“Oh, you’re a delight tonight.” Megan reached for her raspberry-flavoured cider and took a large gulp. The bottle stopped at her lips. Her eyes went wide. Claire could feel the panic coming off her as though it was her own.
“What?” Claire turned towards the door to see what had ratcheted up Megan’s anxiety level.
A second later, she was just as frozen as her twin. Standing in the pub entrance, his attention currently fixed on the stage, where Betty was gearing up for her big finale, was the man they’d almost run over.
“What do we do?” Megan whispered. “Run? Talk to him? What?”
Claire felt the bottom of her stomach plummet. “Maybe he won’t remember us.”
Before they could make a decision, the guy’s eyes swept over the room. They snapped back to zoom in on them. He jerked in place. His friend was still talking to him, but he didn’t seem to notice. His lips thinned in clear determination as he stalked towards the twins. His eyes never left their faces, making them act like deer caught in headlights.
“I say we run,” Megan whispered.
Claire felt her sister grab her arm and take a step back towards the toilets, and the corridor that led to the hotel entrance. From the look on the guy’s face, Claire agreed it might be wise to run. Unfortunately, her feet hadn’t received the memo from her brain and were stuck to the floor.
He came to a stop in front of them. His eyes ran over Megan, before turning to Claire. “Two of you,” he muttered. He studied both of them for a few seconds more before focusing in on Claire. Recognition flared in his eyes. Claire felt her world tilt. “Angel.” He growled as he reached for her. “Mine,” he said.
Claire took a deep breath. “Run,” she screeched.
The twins spun in their matching boots and darted along the corridor to the hotel reception. A minute later they were out in the cool night air.
“How the hell did he recognise you?” Megan demanded as they sprinted away from the pub. “We’re identical. We’re wearing the same freaking clothes tonight. Only three other people can tell us apart.”
“Less talking. More running,” Claire shouted back.
“I don’t think so,” a voice said behind her as an arm swept around her waist, and Claire found her feet dangling above the ground. Her back pressed against a firm chest. An arm made of solid muscle held her tightly.
“Mine,” the voice said again.
“As entertaining as this caveman crap is,” said another male voice, “I think you should probably put the nice girl down so we can talk this through.”
Claire spun around as the man holding her turned to his friend. “Mine.”
“Down, boy.” The other guy grinned. He, at least, looked approachable. Possibly even friendly. Also, he wasn’t growling “mine” every few seconds, which was a plus.
“Let go of my sister,” Megan snapped. “This isn’t the Ice Age. You can’t come along and claim ownership of a person. Put her down right now. Or so help me, you’ll regret it.”
Megan was furious. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were sparkling and her hair was flying. She looked ready to do some damage. The less terrifying guy laughed. “Hold it together, Tinker Bell. The big guy here only wants to have a chat. Right?”
Claire felt the muscle behind her tense before his breath warmed her ear. “I’m going to put you down. You will not run. You get me?”
She nodded
. She wasn’t capable of speech. Slowly, he lowered her down his body and placed her on her feet beside him. He kept his arm wrapped around her waist. His large palm was flat against her stomach above the waistband of her jeans. Claire swallowed hard and looked up over her shoulder at him. And up. He had to be about seven foot tall. He’d been a whole lot less intimidating when he was lying down. Being unconscious helped too.
“Come over here, honey.” Megan used the same tone people adopted with skittish animals and terrified children.
“Stay,” the mountain rumbled.
Claire stayed.
She cast a glance at Megan out of the corner of her eye and saw her own confusion and fear mirrored there. Neither of them knew what to do.
“This is going well,” the cheery guy said. “I’m Joe Barone. The big guy is Grunt. We didn’t mean to freak you out. Grunt here would like to have a chat about his head injury. He’s missing some information.” He chuckled. “Although the poster you made cleared up some of his questions.” He spread his hands wide. “How about we find somewhere quiet and have a chat? Friendly like. Nothing to worry about.”
Megan hitched a thumb towards Grunt. “Can you keep a leash on the gorilla? Because if you can’t, I’m calling my brother to come get us.” She turned to Grunt. “My brother, the cop.”
Grunt stepped closer into Claire’s side. She could feel his body heat overwhelm her. “Mine,” he said again. He took her hand in his. It swallowed hers whole. His grip was firm, but not threatening.
Claire couldn’t move. Couldn’t talk. Couldn’t do anything.
“He has to stop saying that,” Megan said to Joe. “Make him stop saying that. Claire does not belong to him.”
“Claire.” The reverent way that Grunt said her name went right through her, making her shiver. His free hand gently stroked her cheek as his eyes softened. Then heated. Claire gulped, but still she couldn’t move her feet. Was this how a kitten felt when a rambunctious toddler claimed it? If that was the case, she’d taken her last animal to kindy for the kids to pet.
Calamity Jena Page 8
