by Robyn Grady
Red and clearly well maintained, it reminded him of a model he’d used when he was a kid. He’d received a dollar whenever he’d tended the yard, but his foster dad’s smile had been the best reward. He had only ever given praise, and had never raised his voice as some of the other ‘dads’ had. Six months into Ben’s stay with his new family, that man had died of a heart attack. In his foster mother’s redrimmed eyes—in her overly kind voice—Ben had guessed his fate. Next house. Next family. Hell, by that time, he should’ve been used to it.
Celeste ran her hand over the metal handle. ‘This one must be over twenty years old. Wouldn’t you like a newer model?’
He wheeled it outside. ‘This’ll do fine.’
He stooped and ripped the cord. The engine whirred, but didn’t kick over. Putting some back into it, he pulled again. Splutter, whir, then nothing. Seeing her dainty foot pegged out, but avoiding her eyes, he set his hat on the ground and yanked the cord almost out of its connection.
He smothered a wince and stood back. He would not rub his shoulder.
‘It must be broken.’
Celeste sauntered forward and, with one perfectly manicured tip, flicked a small lever. Frowning, he looked closer.
The lever said ‘Fuel’. How’d he miss that?
‘Try it now,’ she said.
He shifted his jaw, bent to rip the cord again and the motor roared to life.
With a solemn face, he nodded deeply. ‘Good work,’ he said over the noise.
Her eyes were laughing. ‘Does that mean I pass the first test?’
He flexed a brow. ‘I believe that was the second test.’
Her emerald eyes darkened but this time she didn’t look away.
Pleased to have his vixen back, he settled his hands on the metal bar and remembered a vibration that shook all the way up to rattle his teeth. ‘In your professional opinion, how long do you think this will take?’
‘This model’s not self-propelled, so the best part of the morning,’ she called back.
He stepped away and indicated the mower. ‘There you go.’ Distaste dragging on her face, she stepped back too. ‘What’s wrong? You grew up with fertiliser and secateurs. You’ve mown a lawn before, surely.’
If he worked her hard enough, she’d be running off to her handbag shop by midweek. One day, she might even thank him.
She turned off the fuel. ‘It’s a large block. If you insist I do this, I’ll use a ride-on.’
A few moments later, another engine was growling, a monster this time. A ride-on? This model was more like a tractor.
She found some gardening gloves and wriggled her French tips into each slot while he plonked his Akubra on her head. ‘You’ll need this. It’s getting hot.’
Her chin tilted and she peered at him from beneath the overly large brim. ‘Thanks.’ Her tone said she wasn’t sure she meant it.
After she’d pulled herself up behind the wheel, he hauled up behind her.
She rotated around, then ducked as his leg swung over her head. ‘What the hell are you doing?
He squeezed down behind her on the adequate seat, tandem style. Nice fit. Nice perfume too. Light and flowery with a hint of a bite. Suited Miz Prince to a sassy tee.
‘I told you last night. If we’re doing this, I’ll need to be your shadow.’
As if he had rabies, she shunted closer to the steering wheel. ‘Perhaps you need a drink first. How’s ice tea?’
‘I prefer something hot in the morning.’
She turned fully around and sent him a warning glare from way beneath that Akubra brim. ‘You won’t scare me off.’
Well, hopefully not too soon.
He waved his hand at the steering wheel. ‘Then I suggest you drive.’
Determination filled her eyes. She released the handbrake and planted her foot. The machine lurched forward and her hat flew in his face. Then she yanked the wheel, the tractor arced to the left and Ben fell sideways, barely managing to stay on.
Righting himself, he jammed the hat back on her head and, setting his hands on her hips, drove her rump back hard against his inner leg seams. She’d given him reason to hang on and her backside was the quintessential grip.
She slammed on the brake and scrambled off. When she threw the hat on the ground, he saw her face was flushed. ‘I’m not doing this.’
He shrugged. ‘You set the agenda.’
Talking him into this crazy plan, choosing this tractor, then trying to tip him off.
‘You—you—’ She bit her lip. Averting her gaze, she got her breath and maybe counted to three before she pinned him down again. ‘You’re not playing fair.’
‘This isn’t about what’s fair. I’m doing what I need to do to ensure the welfare of a future investment.’ And, in due course, set you on your merry way.
Her gaze zigzagged over his face as if trying to find a way in, or out. Then, with her mouth set, she pulled herself up on the ride-on again.
For the next hour they rode that baby in a diagonal pattern back and forth over the massive square of lawn. The vibration worked up his legs, rippling through every bone in his body. It should’ve been entirely non-sexual, but for her sweet behind planted before him…shifting, shaking, rubbing, until he gripped the seat either side and prayed for the torture to end. By the time they returned to the shed and she dismounted, his pants were on fire.
She grabbed the brim of his hat, flung it like a frisbee and set her hands on her hips. ‘Satisfied?’
He groaned. Not quite.
He edged off the opposite side and held off rearranging himself. ‘Well done,’ he croaked.
‘So, what’s next on your agenda?’
‘How about a long cold drink?’ He turned to face her.
She looked half pleased. ‘Possibly something with ice?’
He frowned. ‘A man is not a camel, Miss Prince.’ Nor was he a block of wood…well, not literally. At this precise moment, he was a desperately aroused animal who was a second away from showing her just how aroused he was.
Forcing his testosterone-driven brain to visualise a bleak snowy landscape—no valleys, no peaks—he headed towards the house, sensing the dogs padding behind him. When he slowed down, she caught up, but he steered the conversation towards a safe topic.
‘How long have you had the dogs?’
‘Matilda and Clancy were from the same litter. We got them…’ Her words faded before she finished the sentence. ‘Dad got them about fifteen years ago.’
He calculated. ‘You would’ve been—’
‘Ten,’ she said, keeping her eyes dead ahead. ‘Same year my mother passed away.’
His chest tightened, but his step didn’t falter. Although, of course, he was ‘sorry for her loss’, in his opinion, that kind of phrase rarely sounded sincere. In her place, he wouldn’t want to hear it. They didn’t know each other well enough to ask about the circumstances. Instead he clicked his fingers and both dogs pranced up. Smiling, he brushed a palm over one wet nose, then the other. ‘They act like pups.’
She swept her hair back in a temporary ponytail off her neck. ‘They’ll go and sleep under a tree half the day now.’
‘They’ve had breakfast, then.’
Getting his hint, she smiled. ‘I bet Denise has whipped up a feast. You look like a bacon-and-eggs man.’
His brows lifted. Good guess. ‘And you say that because…’
She dropped the ponytail. ‘I have a crystal ball.’
‘A crystal ball would come in handy. Have you asked it about our six-week trial?’
As a warm breeze blew back the ribbons of her hair, he thought he saw her brow pinch. ‘What do you think it would say?’
He didn’t need a crystal ball to predict what would happen here. But suddenly he wasn’t feeling so hot about playing a game that could only end one way. Even if he did step aside, Rodney would find another buyer. If, indeed, he could attract another decent bid for a business on the brink. Celeste was in a no win situation. Should
he convince Rodney to allow her to continue with this doomed plan until she chose to walk away herself? Or would it be kinder to call stumps now? He knew from experience that holding onto fantasy could be worse than facing the truth. The sooner a person accepted, the sooner they could start to hold it together and survive another way.
When they entered the house, those thoughts evaporated as he soaked up the aroma of warm toast and, he was betting, fresh muffins. Man, he was starved. He was about to excuse himself and wash up when a familiar voice drifted down the hall.
Celeste turned to him with a curious gaze. ‘My father’s back.’
A female voice tinkled down to them next. ‘Sounds like he’s brought company.’
They found Rodney and his guest standing in the middle of the Axminster-carpeted living room, beneath the shifting reflections of a sparkling chandelier. From the night before, Ben recognised the woman. He wasn’t the least surprised that Rodney was kissing her. He’d had the strongest feeling…
Celeste’s hands flew to her mouth, but a gasp escaped.
Startled, Rodney broke the kiss and stepped back from the beautiful widow, Suzanne Simmons.
His moustache drooping, Rodney cleared his throat then rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Celeste, Benton, you both know Mrs Simmons.’
Ben anticipated Celeste’s reaction. He stepped closer, surreptitiously steadying her before her legs gave way. Ben nodded a greeting at the couple. Celeste couldn’t manage the same courtesy. Who could blame her? This must be a shock.
Her voice was threadbare. ‘What’s going on?’
With her eyes on Ben and Celeste, Suzanne Simmons touched her beau’s arm. Reassuring her, Rodney patted her hand, then walked up to his dazed daughter. ‘Suzanne and I are going to be married, Celeste. We’re very happy. Really looking forward to kicking back and having a family.’
Celeste’s long lashes fluttered several times as she took it in. ‘Dad, you’re sixty-five.’
His jowls pinked up. ‘Suzanne’s having a baby. She’s a fair way along with your little brother or sister. She had a scare last night but we’ve been to the doctor and everything appears to be fine.’ He looked back at his bride-to-be and sent a smile. ‘Just fine.’
While Ben felt Celeste’s disbelief to his bones, he did what was expected. He put out his hand. ‘Congratulations, Rodney.’ He finished shaking and nodded towards Suzanne. ‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy.’
Another empty phrase, but this time, no doubt, appreciated. Ben believed in love wholeheartedly. It was the happily ever afters a man could never count on.
Suzanne’s expression was kind and concerned as she came forward and took both Celeste’s hands in hers. ‘I’m sorry. This must be a huge surprise. We wanted to tell you tonight over a quiet family dinner.’ The widow’s gaze dropped to her rounded belly, then found Celeste’s eyes again. ‘I hope we can be friends.’
Ben’s heart went out to Celeste as her slender throat bobbed up and down. Then she seemed to find some inner strength and somehow smiled. ‘I’m…very happy…for you both.’
Suzanne addressed Ben. ‘This buyout has come at the right time. We want to enjoy each other and the baby without the worry of a big business hanging over our heads.’ She spoke to Celeste. ‘Your dad tells me you’d like to buy another shop. That’s so exciting. Bet you can’t wait to get out there and start looking.’
Celeste’s eyes glistened with a different kind of emotion as she looked to her father, who only looked away.
The circumstances were hardly the same and yet Ben felt Celeste’s pain as if it were his own. It was a similar stab in the gut he’d experienced at age ten when he’d stepped one way, fate had stepped another, and suddenly he hadn’t had that home any more. Guess the hurt of being pared off was no different no matter your age or position. Today at least he could do something to help.
Ben moved forward. ‘I didn’t expect to see you so soon, Rodney. I’ve invited your daughter out for the day. We were about to head off to grab something to eat.’
Rodney’s expression jostled. ‘Denise has a banquet on its way out.’
‘And with my appetite—’ Suzanne’s settling hand found her fiancé’s arm again ‘—I’m sure I could eat at least half of it. You two run along,’ she encouraged Ben and Celeste. ‘We’ll see you both back here later.’
Five minutes on, Ben and the still stunned Celeste were seated in his SLK Mercedes, heading into town. She didn’t protest; he’d bet she could barely talk. Her last twelve hours had been one kick in the gut after another. Yet she’d been so strong.
He was definitely no expert in fixing family woes; today he was an outsider, as always. He shouldn’t feel responsible. This wasn’t his doing. And yet what would it cost him to see his vixen smile again?
He planted his foot.
He knew just where to start.
CHAPTER THREE
BEHIND her sunglasses, Celeste gazed blindly out at the endless stretch of gum trees as Benton Scott’s high-powered sports car propelled them away from her father’s house. She didn’t know if she ever wanted to see it again.
Benton didn’t try to talk, for which she was grateful. Rather, with the top down, they drove until the traffic skirting the city slowed their escape. It was enough. She’d had an hour and had reached a conclusion.
Things happened for a reason. Today’s king-hit was meant to make her see that the dream she’d held onto all these years hadn’t been real—had never really been hers, no matter what she remembered from the past. Now it was time to either be eaten up by a sense of betrayal or let go. Given that her heart had been cracked wide open and all hope had leaked out, the second choice was a shoe-in. She had no more to give.
The well had run dry.
A traffic light blinked to red and Benton rolled the Merc to a stop. Exhaling fully, Celeste removed her glasses and studied the driver, who, at the moment, seemed more like a godsend than an assassin. Either way, he was the hottest man she’d ever met. And, it seemed, a sensitive one.
She half smiled. ‘Thanks for getting me out of there.’
Glancing over, Benton pulled his mirror lenses down an inch, lifted a brow, then pushed the frames back up his aquiline nose. ‘No problem.’
He was bad-boy handsome, perhaps with a touch of Mediterranean blood. His skin was smooth and olive, hair dark as pitch and long enough, she realised now, to lick the collar of his khaki shirt. She couldn’t see his eyes so she focused on his profile…on his lips…beautiful lips for a man…dusty pink, the bottom one full and soft. She remembered how soft. Remembered how he’d tasted too.
‘We’re almost into the city.’ He slipped into gear. The car cruised off again and the magnificent steel arch of Sydney Harbour Bridge came into view. ‘I’d like to see your shop.’
Celeste smiled, but shook her head. Now he was taking compassion too far. ‘You’re not the least bit interested in handbags and belts.’
‘Doesn’t mean I’m not interested in what you normally do with your day.’
Brooke helped manage Celestial Bags and Accessories and had taken this weekend shift. They’d been best friends for ten years, but Celeste couldn’t face her today. Knowing the family history, Brooke would try to comfort her and Celeste would sooner forget today had ever happened. A long hot bath and a good thick book might be the best place to start.
When the Merc rolled up to another set of lights, she turned to him. ‘Sorry, but I’d rather you just drop me home.’
His large hands slid down opposing arcs of the sports steering wheel. ‘No can do.’
She frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The day’s too nice to spend moping around inside.’
‘I won’t be moping.’ Her frown deepened. ‘I’m all done moping.’
He removed his glasses. His look said, Yeah, right. Aloud he said, ‘I’ll make you a deal.’
She gazed out the window. Please, not now. ‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘Not that I’m kee
ping score, but you owe me one. In fact, you owe me two.’
Her mouth pulled to one side. Oh, hell. She really did—for going along with her six-week scheme, and then pulling her out of that awkward situation with her father and Suzanne Simmons.
She held back a weary sigh and faced him. ‘What is it?’
‘I’ll drop you home, but only to grab a swimsuit.’
Her pulse rate picked up. That sounded ominous. ‘What do you have planned?’
He drew a zip across his lips. ‘Federal secret.’
She had a flash of him entertaining her in a bubbling spa tub on the balcony of some glamorous penthouse suite. But somehow that didn’t gel. She wasn’t getting a ‘take advantage of the poor girl while she’s down’ feeling. Rather the opposite.
Oh, what was she agonising over anyway? She’d bought a new swimsuit last week. She was a couple of kilos past her ideal weight, which had gone directly to her saddle bags. But what the heck? Would it kill her to be impulsive for a change?
Decided, she gave him directions to her apartment building, and ten minutes after he’d pulled up she was back down with her swimsuit packed. With his hip propped against the bonnet, he disconnected his cell call and opened her door, then eased back into his side.
He fired up the engine. ‘Feeling any better?’
‘I’m not feeling anything.’ She shrugged. ‘I feel kind of numb.’ Must be a defence mechanism; it had been one of the worst days of her life.
He adjusted the rear-view mirror. ‘Let’s fix that.’
Soon the Merc was swerving into the private car park of a marina. A middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair and shortie-shorts rushed out from the boathouse to greet them and hand Benton a large picnic hamper. After thanking the woman, he escorted Celeste—a guiding hand on her elbow—down a jetty. They stopped before an impressive white yacht.
Her gaze ran over the lines of the hull and stopped at the name written in red flowing letters—Fortune. ‘I take it this is yours?’
When he removed the sunglasses, pride shone from his eyes, which sparkled with flickering light off the water. ‘A beaut, isn’t she?’
