by Téa Cooper
He threw the pillow to the end of the bed and tossed aside the twisted cotton sheet, then knuckled the sleep from his eyes. The weathered timber floorboards were warm against his feet as he sat on the side of the bed, and then he stood and wandered aimlessly toward the French doors in his T-shirt and shorts to draw back the curtains and let some fresh air into the room.
The pale sunlight slanted across the second-story veranda, and he stepped out, gazing up and down the empty street, remembering the neat female body leaning into the back of the truck. Tom laughed aloud, acknowledging the snap of attraction crackling in the air when she had come into the restaurant. Sure, she appealed to him, but why had he behaved like a bear with a sore head? In fact, he’d been bloody rude. Obviously the flowers had disconcerted him. Proteas equaled funerals. Simple equation, simple result—death. No excuse for his rudeness but the flowers had brought the dream back. He had to get over the nightmares that continued to plague him. Being back in Australia had gone some way to helping him file the memories away, but when he was least expecting it, something would remind him, and they’d sneak up on him again. Who would have thought a bucket full of proteas could do it? With any luck, working on a protea farm should desensitize him.
He stalked down the corridor to the bathroom and turned on the shower above the claw-foot bath. The bathroom could do with a bit of renovation, but it was Nick’s call, and if he wanted to get the restaurant up and running before he bothered about the accommodation upstairs, then fair enough. He’d done what he was asked and didn’t intend to offer advice to anyone anymore.
The steaming spray beat down on his head, clearing some of the tension from his muscles. He was looking forward to this new job; he needed something to keep him occupied, hard physical work with no responsibility, just so long as no one imagined it was permanent. He didn’t do permanent anymore. It was easier to move on before getting too settled, too comfortable, because mistakes were made when familiarity sneaked in and you relaxed your guard.
There was something about the whole Protea Boys idea he found fascinating. Apart from the fact it was such a smart idea, it sounded as though the two of them had nailed the whole business and really planned it out. Hillary was undoubtedly the brains behind the set-up, and Georgina saw to the flowers and the deliveries. At least, he presumed it worked that way. Hillary hadn’t been too forthcoming when she’d interviewed him, but then why should she be? It was none of his business; he was just the hired hand, and he wanted it like that.
Seeing Georgina again wouldn’t be all bad either. Maybe if he riled her enough, he’d see those violet eyes flash. He shook his head. It mightn’t be such a bad idea if there was someone around to keep an eye on her. She seemed to be a wee bit accident-prone, what with falling flat on her cute little ass in front of him and crashing into the wildlife.
Flicking the water to cold, he took a couple of deep, settling breaths before he turned it off and grabbed the towel, stepping out of the rickety old bathtub. The couple of rooms above the restaurant had provided him with the perfect place to stay, somewhere to hang his hat, but they sure as heck needed some work. He pulled on his jeans and a black sleeveless T-shirt and grabbed his Akubra before swinging around the carved banister and clattering down the timber stairs toward the enticing aroma of Nick’s coffee.
***
Georgie peered out of the kitchen window as she rummaged through the piles of paper littering the kitchen bench, getting more and more frustrated. The work schedule she and Hillary had drawn up had to be around somewhere. She wanted to give it to the boys as soon as they arrived. Arrived—oh, no. She smacked her hand to her forehead. The new guy, she’d forgotten the new guy. His driving license needed checking, and she had to make sure he could handle the truck. Not only that, they had to load the tools if they were going to get to their first job by eight o’clock.
She shot out of the door, then ran across the paddock, squinting into the morning sun. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she saw a vehicle parked by the shed. One of them had beaten her to it.
Damn.
A silhouette leaning nonchalantly against the side of the black four-wheel drive came into view. Tall and lean, with an Akubra pulled down shadowing his eyes and arms folded across his chest. As she slammed to a halt, he pushed his hat back and winked at her.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped.
Shit, not a very polite way to greet someone.
It was a trick. Hillary had played a huge trick on her.
She better be good at high jump.
“Good morning, Georgina.” His laconic drawl made the hairs on her arms prickle, and his gaze ran up and down the length of her body; she stopped herself from rubbing her arms just in time. At least six feet four inches of pure muscle and screaming masculinity. The mere sight of him made her hackles rise. This was not one of her ridiculous dreams. She groped around, trying to find something to say, but he didn’t help, just kept looking her up and down, waiting patiently.
“I didn’t know it was you,” she finally managed to splutter.
“You didn’t know what was me?” he said, green eyes sparkling at her. She wanted to slap the ridiculous, audacious grin off his face. He was enjoying every moment of her discomfort.
“Hillary didn’t say it was you.” She ground the words out between her gritted teeth.
“Hillary didn’t exactly say it was you either—but I guessed.”
The whole conversation, if you could call it that, was getting more idiotic by the moment.
Take control. I have to take control.
Blood pounded somewhere inside her head. “So you’re here to work, not just making a social call?” She narrowed her eyes, finding it virtually impossible to be civil.
“I’m under the impression I’m starting work today. Hillary said you were expecting me, and I should turn up at seven o’clock this morning.” He stared pointedly at his watch, accentuating his deliciously muscled forearm and said, “It’s five to, by my reckoning.”
“I didn’t know it was you.” Georgie’s brain had stuck, like an old, scratched CD; the phrase stuttered in her head, and she couldn’t stop it falling out of her mouth. “I didn’t know it was you. Hillary said your name was Morgan.”
“It is. Morgan, Tom Morgan.” He enunciated the words slowly as though she had a limited command of English.
In an attempt to restrain the recurring urge to hit him, Georgie clenched her fists.
“Remember? I introduced myself after our little adventure with the wombat last week.”
Remember.
How could she forget? She involuntarily moved her finger to her lips, unsure for a moment if her memory of his kiss was real or not, but the glimmer in his eye assured her it was, and she pulled her hand from her face and stuffed it into her pocket.
“Then we spoke on the phone.”
“Yes. I remember. It’s just I didn’t know it was you Hillary had interviewed.”
You’re burbling, talking nonsense.
Hillary had said his name was Morgan, and she hadn’t put two and two together. She dreamed—not dreamed, no, he didn’t need to know about her dreams—of him as Tom.
Tom of the predatory green eyes with tawny flecks.
Mr. Leopard Eyes who was watching her with a deal more than a glint of amusement. She sucked in a deep breath and exhaled, enjoying the exasperated puffing sound escaping her lips. Her flesh shivered despite the warmth in her face.
“I can go if you like. It’s not a problem. I was looking forward to the job. Thought it would be a challenge working for two lovely ladies.”
That’s it. That’s done it. The patronizing sexist.
She clenched her teeth to prevent the words escaping. Sometime in the not-too-distant future she was going to explain to this man that she was running the business and she employed him—not the other way around. She’d played that game before, and she had no intention of falling into the trap again.
“No, it’s not n
ecessary.” Georgie stood tall, pushing her shoulders back and tilting up her chin. His eyes lit up appreciatively, but she ignored it. “The other guys will be arriving in a couple of minutes. Here’s the schedule.” She held the coffee-stained piece of paper out. “All the addresses are marked, and there’s a GPS in the truck so you shouldn’t have any trouble finding the properties.”
Tom stepped closer to take the paper from her, and she dropped it into his fingers as though it were scorched, determined not to make the mistake of having any contact with his skin this time.
Staring at the piece of paper for no more than a second, he said, “Doesn’t look too difficult to me,” and stuck it in the back pocket of the hip-hugging jeans that molded his tight butt.
Georgie swallowed noisily and stalked off. “The truck’s over here.” She threw the words over her shoulder and headed in the direction of the shed, not stopping to see if he was following.
When she reached the truck, she ground to a sudden halt by the driver’s door and spun around. Tom stood right behind her, so close she almost crashed into him. All the oxygen drained from the atmosphere, and she rested her hand on the side of the truck to steady herself. As he opened the door she stepped aside. The increased distance between them gave her the opportunity to gather her shattered wits and finally the sound of tires on the gravel saved her. A red Ute pulled up.
Leaving Tom to his own devices, Georgie trudged off to greet Matt and the other two boys, checking her watch as she went.
On the dot—seven thirty.
It was a good sign.
Probably the only good sign so far this morning.
She had to take two steps to every one of the boys’ to keep up with them as they sauntered to the shed like a sheriff’s posse. “You will be working together. Tom has all the schedules and the plan for the day. If you have any questions, I’m sure he can answer them.”
As if in reply, the truck reversed out of the shed, already loaded with the bush tractor, brush cutters, and other tools she’d stacked up yesterday. Tom’s head appeared out of the driver’s window.
“These are the guys you’ll be working with, Matt, Garth, and Jim. This is Tom, Tom Morgan.” Georgie nodded deliberately in Tom’s direction.
Just in case you’re using another name today.
“He’s got all the details for your first day. I’ll leave you in his capable hands.” With what she hoped was a supercilious raise of her eyebrows, she marched back to the house, holding her head high, determined not to give Tom the opportunity to make another of his patronizing remarks in front of her new employees. It reminded her of the way Dale had always tried to undermine her actions.
Georgie had the distinct impression she was losing control, and she hadn’t got a snowball’s chance in hell of staying on top of the situation if her body kept betraying her. What on earth was the matter with her? She never behaved like this around men. She’d spent most of her adult life working with men, and she’d never once paid more than passing attention to their bodies—she had, in fact, prided herself on the fact she was more interested in someone’s character than his looks, and this morning she had behaved like a fan club groupie.
Ignoring the dirt sticking to the bottom of her boots, she stamped up the steps into the house and punched the numbers into the phone so hard the ends of her fingers practically became square. It rang and rang until it rang out while she devised several seriously painful ways to kill Hillary. She slammed the phone down as she remembered Hillary was more than likely still stretching and bending to soothing relaxation music.
Half her luck. Not for much longer.
Georgie leaned on the kitchen bench, rocking backward and forward, cradling her head in her hands and massaging her skull with her fingertips. All she wanted to do was to release some of the pounding tension threatening to crack her head open like a macadamia in a press. It would take more than relaxation music to settle her right now. A loud thump sounded from the shed, and she raised her head, squinting through the dirty window.
Like a bunch of overactive school kids, the boys were jostling each other as they climbed into the cab, obviously indulging in some strange male bonding rite. Tom and Matt ended up in the front, and Garth and Jim in the back. She could’ve put money on it. They had the windows rolled down, and when the truck drove past the house and headed for the driveway, their manly voices and a harsh bark of laughter sounded across the paddock.
Come on, Hillary. Come on.
Looking at her watch again, she drummed her fingers against the kitchen bench. It was nowhere near eight o’clock; Hillary wouldn’t be home yet. She punched Hillary’s mobile phone number in again. It rang out. Banging and crashing around the kitchen, she switched on the coffee machine, searching for some ritual to calm her.
Finally, with a large cappuccino in one hand, she perched on the stool and dialed again. It picked up after a couple of rings, and before Hillary had the opportunity to speak Georgie let fly.
“What ever made you employ him, and why didn’t you tell me?” she said, regretting her words the moment they left her lips.
“Good morning, Georgie. I won’t ask you how you are. You sound seriously venomous.”
An overwhelming desire to burst into tears washed over Georgie, and she took a deep breath before she continued. “Hillary, I’m sorry, but I have had the most awful morning...and it’s all your fault,” she finished with a lame sigh.
“What’s wrong? Did something go wrong with the truck? Didn’t they show up? What happened? I’m sorry. I knew I should have been there, but I thought you could handle it while I took the Pilates class.”
“You didn’t tell me. I wasn’t ready for him.” Overwhelmed, Georgie made no sense and now that the moment had passed there wasn’t very much wrong—except in her pathetic imagination.
“Didn’t tell you what?” She could almost hear Hillary frowning.
“You didn’t tell me Protea Boy number four was Tom.”
“Tom? No. Morgan. Didn’t he arrive? The rat. I knew he was too good to be true.”
“He did. That’s the point. Tom, Tom Morgan.” An almost audible clunk echoed as Hillary put two and two together.
“Ooh. You mean Morgan is really Tom. Tom of the we-rescued-the-wombat, Tom, the guy from the new restaurant, the one you don’t fancy.”
“Yes,” Georgie replied, hating the plaintive whine in her voice. “That Tom.”
“Well, it’s great. So you already know him, he was on time, everything is fine, and you’ll get to see him again and find out if you really do fancy him. If you don’t, let me know because I’ll be more than happy...”
“No, it’s not fine, and I don’t fancy him. You’re welcome to him. He’s an arrogant control freak, and he just swept in and took over.”
“That’s great, too, then. That’s exactly what we wanted to happen, isn’t it?”
Georgie puffed loudly down the receiver.
“Come on, Georgie, lighten up. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t fancy a guy. Dale’s long gone. Just accept that you need to meet some new people. You told me that yourself.”
“I’ve told you I don’t fancy him. He gets under my skin, tantalizes me, in fact. I can’t stop thinking about him.”
“It sounds pretty much like you fancy him to me. Personally, I prefer Matt. He’s the one I’ve been having night stallions about.”
“Night stallions? What are you talking about?”
“They certainly aren’t night mares, much too raunchy,” Hillary replied mischievously. “Come on, forget about him. He’s working for you. You haven’t committed yourself to him.”
Georgie gave up. Hillary was right. And after all, if she didn’t like the way he performed, then she’d sack him; she’d done that before.
“I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Yeah.” She groaned. “And thanks—and I’m sorry I shouted at you.”
“My pleasure. I’ve got broad shoulders—bit smaller than Matt’s though.”<
br />
Georgie drank her cold coffee, staring unseeing out of the window. Hillary was right. Forget about it. Simple. He was working for her, and she was a professional. Just because there were strange things going on in her head didn’t mean he had to know about them.
A professional relationship.
Then why did her stomach do somersaults at the word relationship?
Chapter Nine
Peering into the mirror, Georgie scrutinized her face for—she wasn’t exactly sure what for—and moaned loudly at her reflection, pulling the brush through her hair and dragging it back into her customary ponytail. Then she changed her mind and left the heavy mass of hair tumbling down her back. She ran a slick of lip gloss over her mouth, shaking her head at her own reflection. It had to be Hillary’s influence.
With a bang, she closed the bedroom door and peered into the full-length mirror. The truth screamed back at her. She was hiding. She had a wardrobe full of clothes, and she stuck to cargo pants and a black T-shirt every day, and barely took the time to brush her hair. She bumped her fingers along the row of hangers as she tried to remember the last time she had worn a dress.
Oh yes!
The ridiculous cocktail party when Dale had introduced his wife to the hosts and had totally ignored her. She pulled out the offending LBD and twisted it on the hanger, remembering how it had paled into insignificance against the silver backless fish scale number his wife had been wearing. She deposited it firmly in the very back of the wardrobe and began to rummage around, pulling out long-forgotten work blouses and pencil skirts, finally settling on a sleeveless white cotton blouse, capri pants, and ballet pumps.
The mirror confirmed her opinion—a definite improvement. Adjusting the collar on the blouse, she craned to see the view from the side. She couldn’t remember ever feeling beautiful, but Dale had always liked this blouse.
