by Téa Cooper
Georgie sucked in several deep breaths, determined to regain some sort of equilibrium, embarrassed by her ridiculous outburst. She drew her shoulders back and groped for control. “To tell me the wombat we rescued on the road was okay.”
“We rescued?” Hillary’s eyes widened, and Georgie stuffed her hands in her pockets, restraining her overwhelming desire to cover her reddened face. “Since when was there a we? Is there something you’re not telling me, Georgie?”
She narrowed her eyes at Hillary’s teasing tone. It did nothing to make her want to confide in her. She certainly wasn’t going to admit to her mindless infatuation. “No, there isn’t. And it’s none of your business.”
“Right. Okay. Take it easy. Let’s change the subject. Back to the Protea Boys. We have three perfect candidates, and they’re all going to be here at seven thirty on Monday morning.”
If Hillary stuck to the matter in hand, Georgie hoped she would get her wayward mind under control.
“We could do with one more applicant, but three is a good enough start. Carl will be here tomorrow morning with the truck.”
Dragging her mind back, she tramped down her warring emotions. They’d have to wait until she had time and space to sort them out on her own.
“Are you okay to handle it?”
Of course she was. “Yes, yes, that’s fine.” She shook back her hair and tried a conciliatory smile. “I’m sorry, Hill. My outburst was uncalled for. I think you’ve done an amazing job. Thank you so much.”
Hillary gave her a reassuring hug, but it did little to appease the feeling of guilt or sort out the mishmash of emotions filling her.
“I’m off now. I’ll talk to you soon. Try and give yourself a bit of a break this afternoon.”
Georgie waved and slumped down in the chair. This had to stop. She had to get her head in order. And her body under control.
Chapter Six
Tom placed his cup of black coffee on the table and rocked back against the old sandstone wall. A horse and carriage clopped past the general store. The excited bride perched inside waved, thrilled to be meeting her groom waiting in the little church down the lane. He shook his head. The path of true love.
No thanks.
Restoring the old inn had been good though. Using his hands and not his brain, he’d almost stopped thinking about the mayhem of the last few years in South Africa. Australia had been a great way to escape, help his brother out. Nevertheless, the possibility of getting to the stage where the rest of his family welcomed his existence seemed even more distant since his trip to Sydney.
Question—what next?
He and Nick had completed the restoration work on the restaurant, and as happy as he had been to help his brother, playing waiter wasn’t his scene. His people skills just weren’t good enough. He needed to find something else to do, something different, while he waited to hear from the mines.
Itchy feet.
Tom drummed his feet on the sandstone pavers and flipped the battered copy of the local rag over. The bright pink border of an advertisement stood out like a cricket ball at a charity match. His gaze settled on the words WANTED: STRONG, FIT YOUNG MEN and his mouth twisted in amusement as he scanned the page. He wasn’t sure he strictly filled all of the criteria. When did he stop being young? Probably the day he stood in the pouring rain as Jane’s coffin was loaded onto the plane back to Australia. He tapped the advertisement with his finger.
Do you want a job in the open air?
Yes, it would be good.
Have you experience with basic tools and equipment?
Not just basic, pretty much any agricultural tools and piece of equipment you’d like to mention.
Look no further. Here is your opportunity to build your muscles and your bank balance.
His bank balance was in as good as shape as his muscles, but it sounded pretty intriguing—just the thing to cure his itchy feet for a month or two. He pulled his mobile from his back pocket and punched in the numbers.
“Hiya.” The initial pause lengthened. “Hang on a minute. I’ve got to pull over.”
Rolling his eyes, he tried to imagine the owner of the cheerful, upbeat voice on the other end. Eventually the sound of tires on gravel stopped. “I’m enquiring about the advertisement in last Wednesday’s paper.” The silence stretched out. Was she still there? “Have you filled the position?”
Another pause.
Come on, it can’t be too difficult.
“No... Well, yes... Three, we’re actually looking for one more person, but we need someone with managing experience. A team leader.”
“I think I can claim to a have a small qualification in that area.” He contained the beginning of a laugh and ran his fingers through his hair. “Is there any chance of teeing up an interview?”
“Mm,” she replied.
Excellent. A little more information would be handy.
“But we’d really like someone who could start on Monday.”
He looked at his watch.
What is today?
God, if he didn’t know the day of the week, it was certainly time to go back to work.
Saturday.
“This someone could start on Monday, but you’d probably like to eyeball me first and make sure you know what you’re letting yourself in for.” He grinned into the mobile.
“Are you local?” she asked. “Could you drop by this afternoon because I’ve got some spare time? Can I have your name?”
“Yeah. I’m local, and I can do this afternoon. Just give me the address. Is about fourish okay? The name’s Morgan.” He memorized the address. “I’ll see you then.” He snapped the phone shut, still smiling at the catch of excitement in her voice.
***
Tom leaped up into the car with more enthusiasm than he’d been able to summon in a while and followed the old convict road up out of the valley for the second time in as many days. As he crested the hill, he slowed and tracked the verge looking for the spot where they’d rescued the injured wombat. He stopped with a start.
They—no.
He had rescued the accident-prone Miss Georgina Martin, cleared up the mess, and taken the injured wombat to the vet. Pretty much the same way he’d cleaned up the mess after she’d thrown water all over him and the restaurant. Mind you, she probably wouldn’t put it that way, wouldn’t want to accept she’d needed help even if her life depended on it.
Strange.
She brought out some sort of protective urge in him and reminded him of his sister. She certainly didn’t look like Jane, more like some scruffy tomboy.
He glanced up into the rear-vision mirror and slowed to allow a group of bikies to screech past him on a bend, their leather-clad knees almost scraping the tarmac.
Idiots. A bit too close for comfort.
Tom had no intention of getting close to anyone right now, least of all an accident-prone tomboy. He had no idea what he was going to do beyond the next contract. He’d be pushing himself to survive, pushing just to keep up with the demands of the job. Then she’d want something, fall over something, and need something, and if he couldn’t be there—well, it would be just like Jane all over again, wouldn’t it? Expectations he wasn’t able to fulfill. And he wasn’t going there again, not ever. Safer to stay away from needy females and responsibilities he was unable to live up to.
The road wound up a steep track and then branched off into the driveway running along the crest of the hill. The eucalyptus trees in the valley below shimmered in the afternoon heat haze. He pulled up outside the white timber house, cut the engine, and jumped down onto the crushed sandstone driveway.
Stretching, Tom looked around at the half-finished gardens and piles of mulch. Now the advertisement started to make sense. There was more than enough work to keep a few “strong, fit young men” occupied for a month or two. He grinned, remembering the phone conversation earlier. It sounded as though he’d be working for a woman. It would certainly be different, not a problem as long as she wa
s only interested in the finished product and didn’t keep telling him how to do things.
And here she is.
Tom walked up, offering his hand and a massive smile.
“Hi, I’m Hillary, you spoke to me on the phone.”
He laughed as she batted her mascaraed lashes at him. “Hello, Hillary, good to meet you.”
***
Twenty minutes later, Tom climbed back into the car, his mind racing. Not being a great believer in fate, he still reeled from the coincidences literally throwing Georgina into his path. First the wretched flowers—he shook his head, still bemused by his ridiculous overreaction to a bunch of proteas—then there was the wombat escapade—and now it seemed as though she’d be one of his employers. When Hillary had started to explain their joint business venture, it hadn’t occurred to him she was talking about Georgina, not until she had dropped the fact they’d pick up the truck at the protea farm and he’d asked who her partner was. He’d never really entertained the idea of working for one woman, never mind two. Still it looked like a bit of fun, and it would keep him out of trouble for a month or so and prevent him from having to offer his nonexistent hospitality skills to his brother.
For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, he was actually looking forward to something.
Chapter Seven
Georgie rummaged around underneath the protea bush, pulling weeds and trying to ignore the scratches from the pruned branches. Something heavy hit her back, forcing the air out of her lungs. She squealed and then fell, and her face planted in the dirt. Breathing deeply, she settled her palms flat on the ground and pushed herself up with a groan.
“Morning. What are you up to? Looking for fairies at the bottom of your garden?”
Georgie spun around and smiled, wiping a grimy arm across her forehead. “Hi, Hill. How are you?” She brushed her hands down the legs of her cargos, ignoring the long black streak of mud. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at your Pilates class this morning, but I didn’t sleep too well.”
Liar, liar. Pants on fire.
The old playground taunt echoed in her ears, but she couldn’t really tell Hillary she had slept like a zombie and woken up fired with energy after a night of uncontrolled dreams concerning one tall, dark, and lithesome man with glittering green eyes and a body to put a Greek god to shame.
“Oh, it’s okay. I came straight from the classes because Carl will be here with the truck in about half an hour, and I wanted to give you my share of the money. Didn’t want you to be out of pocket. I know things are a bit tight.”
“Thanks.” Georgie looked closely at her friend. She had a sneaking suspicion Hillary was nowhere near the dumb blonde she liked to portray, and the feeling grew with every move. Thoughtful, considerate, and now an excellent business partner. Just maybe the Protea Boys would solve all their problems.
“And—drumroll, please.”
Georgie wriggled as Hillary continued to pick the grass off the back of her stained T-shirt.
“I’ve got news. Excellent news. Wait until you hear this.”
“Okay, let’s have it—what’s happened?” Georgie picked up a pair of secateurs and a shovel. “Tell me while I put these tools away. I keep leaving stuff out in the paddock and coming back a couple of days later to find it rusting under a protea bush.”
“Must be those fairies. Actually, I think we invoked those fairies the other day because as I was leaving here after the interviews, I got a phone call.”
“Another answer to the advertisement,” butted in Georgie. “It would be perfect. Then we’d have our four Protea Boys from day one.”
“Yep!” Hillary raised her clenched fist in a salute.
“So when’s the interview?” Georgie dropped the shovel on the shed floor and chucked the secateurs onto the bench.
“Ah. That’s the point. I had to strike while I had the chance. He could only come for an interview on the Saturday afternoon, so I interviewed him then.”
“And...? Come on, Hillary. Spill the beans.” She punched her lightly on the arm.
“Oh, he’s H-O-T. And I mean hot and also, he’s so overqualified for the job. I can’t imagine why he’d want to do it, but he seems really keen. Says he wants to stay in the area for a while and needs to do something different. I got the feeling he didn’t really need the money, just wanted something to with his time.”
“Come on, Hill. This sounds a bit dodgy. It’s as though he’ll work for a week or two, get bored, and push off, and we’ll be back to square one, looking for someone else. I think you just want to employ him because you like the look of him.” The slight flush of color in Hillary’s cheeks made her smile; at least she wasn’t the only one who reacted to a good body.
“I won’t deny I liked the look of him. You’d have to be blind not to, but somehow I didn’t get the feeling he was mucking around, and he appeared a bit old-fashioned, not really, but a little reserved. No. A gentleman.”
Visions of top hats, tails, and spats danced through Georgie’s head. “I don’t think we are really looking for a gentleman, just someone who can do what he’s asked when he’s asked.” And not try and take over because he was working for a woman. She’d had enough of that with Dale.
“I explained he would be working for two women and asked him if he saw it as a problem.” Georgie had a sneaking feeling Hillary could read her mind, but she managed to keep quiet and let her finish. “And he assured me it wouldn’t be. Said it would be a pleasure to look after someone like me.”
“We’re not looking for someone to look after us. We are looking for someone to work for us and keep those raging young men you’ve employed under control.”
“We’ve employed,” Hillary corrected. “He’s cool, Georgie. I promise you. I’ll take full responsibility if he doesn’t work out. I know he’s going to. He said he’d been working for the government in South Africa. Helping set up farming co-ops or something to give people a bit of self-sufficiency. He said he loved it.”
“Then why did he leave and come back here?” There had to be a catch somewhere.
“I asked. He said he had family affairs to sort out so he had to come back to Australia. He’s not planning to go back to South Africa again.”
“Okay, okay. You’re right. He sounds perfect. Has he got a name?”
“Yep. Morgan. Nice name, nice body, nice man.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Look, here’s Carl with the truck. I can’t wait. Oh yes, and I have something else for you. In my car. I’ll show you when we have sorted Carl out.”
***
“This is so cool,” said Hillary as she clambered up behind the steering wheel of the truck. Looking totally incongruous in her yoga pants, oversize sweatshirt, and headband, she bounced up and down like a kid at the fair.
“Here come the Protea Boys. I can’t believe it, Georgie. We’ve done it. We have made our mad idea come true. That reminds me. Hang on.” She jumped down from the cabin of the truck and ran across to her car.
Georgie walked around the truck, running her hand over the paintwork. It appeared in pretty good condition. A few dints and bangs here and there, but nothing to make it unroadworthy. She leaned over into the tray. Carl was right, the back did need a new base; a few strips of timber and she could fix it with the old floorboards in the shed. She’d take the measurements, and she could easily cut the timber with the circular saw, oil it, and get one of the boys—she giggled, Hillary’s enthusiasm was infectious—to fit them.
“Here you go, darling, the official Protea Boys uniform.” Georgie turned around. A laugh exploded out of her mouth, probably the first really good belly laugh she’d had in a long time, and tears filled her eyes. She couldn’t believe what she saw. Hillary sported a bright pink cap and a very tight navy blue singlet, both emblazoned with an embroidered logo—a large King Protea flower flanked by two rampant brush cutters.
“You are an idiot!” She cracked up again. “They are perfect. Are they just for us, or are you expecting
the boys to wear them as well?”
“I got six—one for you and me and one each for the boys. It doesn’t really matter if they don’t want to wear them, but it might make them stand out—you know, so everyone remembers them and recognizes them. Nothing like a bit of free publicity.”
“Oh, they’ll certainly be free publicity,” said Georgie, pulling her tangled hair through the hole at the back of the cap and tightening it. This business was going to be a lot more fun than the last one. “How do I look?” The cap felt pretty good, and she waggled her head from side to side, waiting for a response.
“Bloody fantastic,” said Hillary, smoothing the tight blue singlet over her ample hips. “Here’s your shirt. Don’t forget your sunscreen.”
“Thanks, Mum, I love it.” She gave her friend a hug, blessing the day they’d met. The big black cloud hanging over her since her return from Sydney finally appeared to be lifting. The sun was out, and she had a great hat to protect her. Life was good, and Dale and his not-so-ex-wife could go to hell. She had made the right decision. This was where she wanted to be, doing what she wanted to do. Dale, the jumped-up, two-timing rat, could keep his flashy dinner parties, sophisticated relationships, and his ex-wife. She wished him joy of it. She wasn’t going to allow anyone to try to run her life anymore.
“So what’s the plan?” Georgie said, adjusting the brim on the pink cap so she could see Hillary.
“Monday morning, seven thirty, you’ll have a paddock full of men straining at the leash, ready to go. Crunch time.”
“We need to make a timetable so we know where they are going and on what days.” Slipping her arm around Hillary’s shoulders, she led her back up to the office, discussing the various jobs for the Protea Boys they had already lined up.
Chapter Eight
Tom rolled over in bed and squashed the feather pillow over his eyes, allowing the blinding panic to clear, to seep away, and his tortured breathing to settle. There was no way he’d go back to sleep, past experience had taught him. The habit of waking in a cold sweat at first light was too hard to break, despite the fact that he had been plagued half the night by the familiar nightmare. The acrid stench of fuel, the burning wreck of the car, and her charred face as he had pulled back the blanket to identify her hovered behind his eyes.
