Suspicious Ways

by Lexxie Couper

  She let out a sigh.

  Six hours of pacing her small unit in Bondi had passed since the annoying bane of her existence turned up at the marina. Six hours spent trying to figure out what the hell she was going to do. The option she kept falling back to was Zane Peterson and his Solomon Island charter job, a solution that made her stomach roll. Six hours pacing, thinking and wondering how the hell she was going to tell her mother what had come to pass.

  A lump filled Ali’s throat at the thought of that conversation. ‘Hi, Mom. Sorry, but all of Dad’s money’s gone. Oh, and the bank just took away his yacht and business too. Sorry. Guess we’ll have to cancel that MS treatment next week. I mean, you don’t really want to get better, do you?’

  She swallowed, her throat tight. No, she couldn’t tell her mother that. It would destroy Jenny if she did. But Ali couldn’t accept Jack taking away her business and yacht either. She had to do something, so here she was, speeding towards Darling Point at ten o’clock at night with no other plan in her head but to get her yacht back. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I’ll beg if I have to.”

  Really? When have you begged for anything?

  Ali bit back a snort. Never. But she never wanted anything like she did this.

  Directing her car into a quiet street, she slowly approached Jack’s house. Her stomach twisted into all sorts of knots and her throat grew thick. The last time she’d been here… She swallowed, shutting down the thought. She didn’t want to think about the last time she was here. It wasn’t wise. Or safe.

  The Mini’s dull yellow headlights fell on a very low, very red car parked in the driveway and her mouth fell open. God, was that a Ferrari? She knew Jack was rich, but this rich? What kind of person owned a Ferrari?

  One rich enough to buy out your life.

  Dragging in a shaky breath, she brought her car to a halt. Here she was.

  Oh, Lord.

  Almost as large as her whole apartment complex, the house was utterly modern and at the same time breathtakingly timeless. She sat frozen, her hands wringing the Mini’s worn steering wheel.

  It had been over four years since she’d stepped foot inside Jack’s home—four years that felt like a lifetime—but she could still remember every detail about the massive six-bedroom mansion, including its gorgeous, multi-million-dollar views of Sydney Harbor. She’d spent more than one day with her father at this very house, leaning against the back deck’s stainless-steel railing, watching the yachts sail by and dreaming foolish teenage dreams of a life where she and Jack lived in blissful happiness. A life where she stood in the same spot every night while Jack ran his hands over her body and his lips over her neck. That was before her father’s death. Before his funeral.

  Christ, what a stupid, immature idiot she’d been.

  With a strangled sob, Ali turned the key in the ignition, killing the engine. The sudden silence was heavy and oppressive, highlighting just how loudly and quickly her heart was beating. She sat motionless in her seat, studying the house. Where was Jack at that very second? In the living room? The master bedroom? She gnawed on her bottom lip a little. What would he do when he heard her voice on the intercom?

  What if he’s not alone? What if the Ferrari belongs to someone else? Someone female? One of those tall, leggy blondes he seemed to—

  “Enough,” she snapped, gripping the steering wheel harder. “This is getting you nowhere. Stop being pathetic and go and get what you came for.”

  Her heart beat faster. What had she come for? Her yacht? Or more of Jack’s—

  She shut down the unsettling thought, dragging her fingers through her hair. “This is dangerous,” she muttered, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead to the wheel.

  But her body wasn’t listening. It remembered all too well her teenage fantasies about this house and the man who lived in it. It remembered the sexual reality of that man’s touch. Little shots of heat flared low in her stomach, stabbing into her groin. A thrill rippled through her body, sending her already strung nerves into a heightened state.

  “God, Ali.” Her snarl tore into the cabin’s silence. “Get a damn grip, will you?”

  She flung opening her car door and threw herself from the car, her stare locked on the large second-floor windows glowing with warm light. Her pulse thumped like a trapped butterfly beneath her ear. “Just get him to give you more time,” she muttered. “That’s all you need, more time to pay off the loan. And whatever you damn-well do, don’t kiss him.”

  She took a step towards the high security gates, her fists clenched, her jaw clenched, a flutter between her thighs making her panties damp. Damp. Damn it, she was in so much trouble.

  Stepping from his cool air-conditioned living room out onto the expansive second-floor balcony, Jack pulled in a deep breath and the sweet smell of a summer night on Sydney Harbor filled his lungs. He’d forgotten how distinctive the scent was—part eucalyptus, part sea-salt, part jasmine. Now he was back home, he wondered how he could ever go without it again. He took another breath, deeper this time, closing his eyes as he rested his hands loosely on the steel rail before him.

  His younger brother had left not fifteen minutes ago, complaining in that good-natured way of his about being kicked out of his home.

  “My home, Bill,” Jack had corrected him with a wide grin, plucking the house keys from William’s fingers. “House-sitting usually means returning the house when the owner comes back.”

  William had protested with a laugh, his sharp blue eyes twinkling with mirth. “Oh, well, I guess this means I’ll have to take Alyssa up on her offer, doesn’t it.”

  Jack chuckled, not even remotely concerned who Alyssa was. When it came to William, Jack had figured out a long time ago the women were quite happy to line up and wait. Alyssa was likely to be Brenda next week, Brenda most likely to be Catriona the week after that. When it came right down to it, William McKenzie—Australia’s most infamous film-director—never seemed short of companionship.

  Now that William had headed off to whoever Alyssa was, the house was once again silent. Jack leant against the stainless-steel rail, listening to the sounds of Sydney wafting over the balmy harbor breeze. He let out a long sigh. Damn, he was glad he hadn’t sold this place when he’d left for the US. There was nothing more relaxing than watching the lights of the surrounding homes dance and reflect in the night waters, listening to the yachts and motorboats make their languid way through the gentle swell. And at this point in time, he really needed to relax.

  An image of a tall, slender brunette with flashing blue eyes invaded his mind, and Jack dragged his hands through his already disheveled hair. There was the problem du jour, the reason he couldn’t relax. Ali Graham.

  Removing his glasses from his face, he threw them onto the nearby outdoor dining table, the clatter barely registering in his brain as he rubbed at his eyes. He’d spent the evening trying everything he could to not think about Ali, yet all he’d achieved was a blinding headache and a tension he knew had nothing to do with anger. Even the two hours spent catching up with Bill had offered little distraction. Damn it. Jack was meant to be the one in control of the situation, not Ali. Since when had he become such a sexually frustrated mess?

  The answer to that was simple. Since he’d first met her.

  Yeah, that was right. But as aroused as he was right now—and curse it, he was—he couldn’t stop remembering the look on her face, the hurt and wounded pride in her eyes when she realized he had taken ownership of everything she held dear. Nor could he stop thinking of the cold contempt that flashed over her features as she flatly reminded him he’d left her all those years ago.

  Okay, he’d been less than a caring past acquaintance at the marina. He couldn’t deny that, no matter what spin he put on it. Truth be told, he’d been a downright bastard, cutting her pride to shreds with words he couldn’t believe he was saying. He’d meant to go easy on her, he really had, but when he’d seen her aboard Wind Seeker,
when he’d watched her move over its deck in those short shorts and snug T-shirt that revealed just how sensual a woman she’d become in his absence, every nerve and sense in his body had sprung into eager life. He’d been all too ready to rediscover every delicious inch of her body his mind remembered with no effort at all.

  A harsh grunt of self-disgust scraped at the back of his throat. There was no nice way of putting it—his brain had slipped straight into his pants.

  “It’s not the first time, Jack,” he reminded himself, staring at the lights of Sydney dancing in the dark water before him. “She’s been affecting you that way from the second you first met her.”

  That was true. So true he’d moved to Fremantle after her father’s death to try and escape the temptation she presented. A temptation to which he’d already once succumbed.

  It had made not one bit of difference though. He’d tossed and turned in his large bed every night spent on the other side of Australia, unable to sleep until he’d relieved his body of its hot, explosive pressure. His mind had tried desperately to convince him it was Ali’s hand and not his own releasing his pleasure, while his heart had known damn well it would be satisfied with no one else but her.

  Now here he was, back in Australia to supposedly help her when she was in dire straits, and what had he done? Taken control of her business, ownership of her yacht and reinforced every negative opinion she had about him. He shook his head and let out another savage grunt. “What a piece of work you are, Jack.”

  Thwarting Zane Peterson, saving Ali from the prick was meant to relieve Jack’s guilt, not add to it.

  Staring at the lights fringing the harbor’s water, their twinkling beauty lost to his frustrated contempt, Jack cursed quietly.

  The very thought of Peterson even standing near Ali filled Jack with cold rage. He clenched his fists, his blunt nails digging into his palms, his shoulder muscles bunching. Zane Peterson. Why, of every bloody man in Sydney, did Ali have to be connected to Zane Peterson?

  With a ragged sigh, Jack closed his eyes, a wrenching ache tainting his anger. Peterson had seduced his niece four years ago. His sweet, naïve niece. Peterson had seduced her and dragged her into his decadent, depraved life, walking away scot-free when she was found dead aboard his motorboat.

  Worse still, Jack knew if he hadn’t run from the guilt of sleeping with Ali, if he hadn’t left for Fremantle only three days later, leaving Trudi to live in his house alone, she’d still be alive today. Of that he had no doubt. The police investigation had revealed no connection to Peterson and Trudi’s death however. None. Jack knew otherwise—his heart and gut told him so. But the man was like Teflon—nothing stuck to him. No matter how much depravity Peterson submerged himself in, no matter how strong and persistent the rumors that surrounded him like a foul fog were, by the time the ink on the check was dry, the billionaire appeared as clean as virgin snow.

  Jack despised him. With every fiber of his body and soul. Despised him and longed for hard justice. He didn’t think his hatred for the man could boil hotter, but the thought of Ali in Peterson’s arms pushed Jack’s fury to a dangerous level he’d never experienced before. At the thought of the bastard’s lying mouth on Ali’s soft lips, at the very notion of the man’s pudgy hands on her slim body, touching her, feeling her…

  A strangling pressure wrapped Jack’s chest. He’d failed in his responsibilities to look after Trudi, and Peterson had devoured her. He was damn certain Ali wasn’t going to suffer the same fate.

  A sharp buzzing noise punched through the deadly blackness engulfing Jack and he blinked, shooting his watch a quick frown. Who in the hell would be calling at this time of night?

  Pushing away from the rail, he walked back into the living room, drawing deep breaths as he forced his muscles to relax. It was probably William. Knowing his kid brother, Bill had left something behind—most likely his condom supply.

  The buzz sounded again. Shorter this time. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, crossing the expansive room and into the vaulted-ceiling foyer, “I’m coming.” He hit the intercom button beside the front door, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “Yes?”

  “Jackson McKenzie?”

  A sharp breath burst from Jack at the soft American accent. An accent he knew so very well, spoken by a female voice he knew even better. Instantly, his body tensed. His muscles sprung tighter than a steel coil, his groin growing just as tight.

  Ali Graham was outside his home.

  He stared at the intercom panel, thinking fast. He knew she was here about her business. It wasn’t in her to concede, especially to him, but he wasn’t ready to talk to her. What was he going to say? That he was protecting her from human scum? That he wanted to take her to his bedroom and bury himself up to the hilt in her sublime body once more?

  The pit of his stomach clenched. Damn it, things were spiraling out of control and he’d only been back in Australia for twelve hours.

  Letting out a sharp breath, he jabbed at the intercom button again, forcing his words to sound calm. Indifferent. “Yes, Ali?”

  “I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  He clenched his jaw, the steel in her voice jarring. He’d never heard her use such a tone before—it was the tone of a hardened business professional, not a twenty-four-year-old woman who should be seeing little but the joy in life.

  He was responsible for that tone. Responsible for it when what he really wanted was to be responsible for her joy.

  He bit back a low growl. Damn, he was loathsome. He’d completely devastated this woman today, her parting words a stinging reminder it hadn’t been the first time. But now, while he was still trying to get his head together over what he’d done to her, here she was on his doorstep. She’d come to confront him, and all the primitive, male part of him wanted to do was drag her into his home and lose himself in her body, make love to her until she was senseless and breathless and begging for more.

  “May I come in?” There was a slight pause. “Please?”

  It was the please that undid him. Ali’s pride was legendary. What must it have taken for her to come all the way to his home? To stand at his door and beg to come in? After what had happened this afternoon? After what had happened four years ago?

  Jack hit the intercom again, his gut a churning mess, his body tighter than tight. “Okay.”

  He pressed the button that would open the front security gate, his heart thumping fast. “Get her out as soon as possible,” he muttered, turning from the intercom panel. “Don’t touch her. Don’t even stand close to her.”

  Striding back onto the deck, he snatched his glasses from the table, cast the calm, dark Sydney Harbor one last quick look and then quickly returned to the living room. He rammed his glasses onto his face. Just remember her involvement with Peterson. That ought to keep your libido under—

  A faint knock on the front door silenced the unsettling thought, and Jack’s pulse kicked up a notch. She was on the other side. Waiting for him.

  With a harsh breath, he walked to the door and yanked it open.

  Ali stepped through the threshold, shoulders square, spine ramrod straight. Jack’s gaze fell to her mouth and immediately wished it hadn’t. Her lips were full and way too inviting, their soft shape slicked with coppery-rose gloss. The powerful desire to taste them hit him like a demolition ball, and he sucked in a silent breath. God help him, he was a goner.

  She tilted up her delectable chin, her stare holding firm on his face. A cool and very aloof expression sat on her features like a foreign mask. “Thank you for seeing me, Jackson.”

  The delicate scent of her perfume threaded into his breath and he bit back a groan. Damn, she smelt so good. A low tension throbbed between his thighs—insistent and demanding. Each heavy beat filled his mind with wicked thoughts and desires. Desires to haul her to his body and—

  He spun sharply on his heel and stormed across the living room floor, putting some semblance of distance between them. “What do yo
u want, Ali?” he threw over his shoulder, his muscles coiled to breaking point. He reached the bar and splashed some ice-cold mineral water into a squat cut-crystal glass. “And please drop the Jackson. We’ve known each other for over seven years and you’ve never called me that.”

  “I’ve never owed you over thirty-five-thousand dollars before.” Her reply scraped at his back, stiff and formal.

  He gripped his glass, staring out the window at the night beyond. “Ahh, I see. Well, I’d rather you call me Jack. Jackson makes me feel old.” Nine years older and having a bloody hard time keeping my mind out of the gutter. He filled another crystal glass with mineral water and turned back to Ali, his frown deepening. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Thank you.”

  She moved then, walking towards him slowly, watching him like a stalked deer. His gaze returned to her mouth again. Why was the sight of her lips coated with lip-gloss so disturbing? He swallowed. He didn’t like this new Ali—the one that wore lip-gloss. She was too sensuous, too intoxicating.

  Too hard to resist.

  Almost of its own accord, his gaze began to roam her.

  She was dressed in typical Ali Graham attire—a pristine white T-shirt with an image of Wind Seeker printed above the swell of her right breast hugged her slim torso, a pair of cut-off denim shorts covered her hips and left her long, firm legs exposed for his inspection.

  A jolt of hot tension shot through Jack’s body. His heart rate tripled and his jeans felt tight.

  He ground his teeth in disgust. For Christ’s sake, she was Andrew’s daughter. He’d known her since she was seventeen.

  God, what the hell am I doing?

  “What do you want, Ali?” he repeated, forcing an air of indifference as he dropped into the closest arm chair. The plush leather did nothing to ease the building tension threatening to overwhelm him. He needed her to leave. His body was whispering suggestions too tempting to ignore. Suggestions that filled his mind with the memory of how she’d felt in his arms the night of Andrew’s funeral—body on body, flesh on flesh, sweat mingling, limbs entwined.