by Karina Bliss
“And I want to join a gym.” Start rebuilding muscle.
“It’s too soon, Lee.”
“Jules,” he said evenly, “you don’t have a vote.”
“Asking me to marry you suggests otherwise.”
But I didn’t mean it. And you only said yes to avoid exposure as a bullshitter.
“Speaking of which, aren’t going to kiss me good-night?” Don’t get too comfortable, sweetie.
Her shadow stilled. “Of course.” She came over, and her hair closed out the light as she bent forward. Warm lips brushed against his in a quick kiss. Lee detected a tremor in them. She had to be wondering how the hell she’d avoid sex while she lived this lie. He had no intention of sleeping with her, but he was sure going to have some fun pretending he wanted to.
Briefly he considered suggesting sharing her bed until he got his strength back but dismissed it. His sleep was fitful, restless with bad dreams, and he didn’t want her seeing that. There were other ways of being naked and he wasn’t doing any of them with Jules.
She straightened, tentatively stroked her fingers through his hair. “I’m glad you’re here.”
As Lee drifted into sleep he thought, You won’t be saying that tomorrow.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JULES SHUT LEE’S DOOR, walked down the passage and then closed the living room door behind her to avoid disturbing him.
She caught herself touching her mouth where the brush of his lips still tingled and dropped her hand, frowning. Don’t go there, girl. Not having to make excuses to avoid intimacy is the only thing going your way.
Despite Lee’s bravado, the kiss they’d just shared was clearly more about his proving he could handle physical contact than real desire. Claire was right to have mentioned the guys’ concern. Lee was far from the demonstrative friend, brother or lover who’d left nineteen months ago.
But it was the man who’d returned Jules had to make amends to.
Taking in the mess in the living room, she frowned again. She wasn’t about to let him exchange one hovel for another. After carting all the papers to her office, she ditched the pink peonies, vacuumed, dusted and scrubbed.
There was little in the fridge for breakfast so Jules baked a batch of muffins. Periodically she paused to check on Lee, very quietly opening his door. His breathing was heavy and regular, and the basin remained unused on the nightstand.
It was midnight before she fell into her own bed, leaving all the doors ajar so she’d hear Lee if he got up in the night. She rose at five, checking him again before she left for work. He lay almost in the same position. Returning to the kitchen, she placed a plate of muffins on the counter along with a list of emergency phone numbers and her direct work line. Scrawled her cell number, too, in case he’d lost it.
Dawn tinged the eastern sky as she parked under her six-story glass office tower, adjacent to the inner-city shopping district. Jules shook off her exhaustion like a wet dog as she disarmed the alarm system. She made a coffee while she waited for her laptop to boot up, then settled in to work.
By the time colleagues starting arriving at eight forty-five she’d written detailed rescheduling instructions for her legal secretary, finalized power-of-attorney documents and tweaked a separation agreement.
Through the narrow gap in the vertical blinds more shadows passed and the hum of conversation rose loud enough to distract her. Her thoughts went to Lee. Would he be awake yet?
Her hand hovered over the phone. Or would she wake him? Don’t get invested, he’s on loan...with payment due.
Speaking of... Sticking her head out of her office, Jules scanned the open-plan central area for the senior partner, saw him huddled with several others around the receptionist’s computer, all engrossed in watching something on the screen. “Morning, everyone. Ted, can we talk?”
Six heads swiveled, six pairs of eyes stared. Instinctively Jules’s hands went to her blouse. She’d been barely awake when she’d dressed. But it was buttoned.
“What are you doing here?” Ted demanded.
“I work here.”
“Why aren’t you home with Lee?”
“I will be soon as I’ve... Wait, how do you know about Lee?”
“She’s wearing the ring again.” Margie, her legal secretary, rushed over to hug her. “It’s the most romantic story I ever heard.”
“Honestly, I choke up every time I watch it.” The receptionist flapped her hands in front of her eyes, to stop brimming tears from ruining her mascara.
Jules’s stomach sank. “It’s on the news already?”
“You mean you haven’t seen it? Jules, it’s the lead story.” Margie tugged her over to the computer and reset the link. Onscreen, a news segment started rolling under a title: The Lazarus Proposal. Hostage Soldier Returns to Happy Ending.
“Oh, God.” Jules tuned into the commentary to hear “...a fairy tale that is sparking international interest.”
Ted dropped a paternal arm around her shoulder. “When did you hear he was alive?”
“Five days ago.” She watched as Lee stepped out of the plane. “I needed a few days to get my head around it before I told anybody.”
The item cut to him down on one knee in the airport lounge. “Jules Browne, who still loves me...” She appeared in close-up, looking like a stunned trout. And there was a spark of hope in the trout’s eyes. Abruptly Jules turned away from it. “Okay, seen enough.”
“There was a message on the reception voice mail when I cleared it.” Margie handed over a piece of paper. “Some TV network in the States, asking you to contact them.”
“Not interested.” Crumbling the Post-it note, she dropped it in the bin. Thank God for an unlisted private number. “Anyone else phones, tell them that, will you? Ted, can we talk?”
“Absolutely.” They walked toward her office. “Take whatever leave you need, Jules. Oli can quit the bloody golf course for a couple of weeks to cover.” Oli was the retired partner whose shareholding she’d bought out.
She suppressed a spike of panic. “I can probably manage half days.” Work had saved her sanity for too many months to cut the cord now.
“Do whatever works for you. Oli will only be too happy to do his bit.”
“There’s something else.” No point beating around the bush. “My deposit for the buy-in was a legacy from Lee and I need to return it. How would you feel about my approaching Nick?” Nick had been in close contention with her for the partnership.
Ted’s brows rose. “That’s drastic. Have you talked to Lee about a repayment schedule?”
She shook her head. “He needs a lump sum to set up a new life—buy a car, put a deposit on a house, possibly invest in a business of his own.”
“What’s wrong with your house?”
She deliberately misunderstood him. “What isn’t?”
“But we only just finalized the legal documents, sent out press releases and printed new business cards.”
“I know, and I’ll cover any changeover costs.” Somehow. “Maybe it won’t be necessary. I listed my house with an estate agent earlier this week. It’s priced for a quick sale.” If the house sold, she could keep her stake.
“And where will you two live then?”
I’ll be in a cardboard box in the park. I expect Lee will be as far away as he can get. “We’ll sort something out. What’s important now is making life as easy as possible for Lee.”
Ted took off his glasses and started cleaning them with
a hankie, the way he always did when he was thinking things through. “He looks like he’s been through hell...?”
Jules breathed a sigh of relief. Ted understood. “Yes.”
“Okay, sound Nick out...but with one proviso.” Ted put on his glasses. “If he’s harboring resentment about our choosing you, I don’t want him.”
“Fair enough.” Jules glanced at her watch. “I’ll put in another couple hours of work now. I imagine Lee will sleep until noon.”
Ted looked at her strangely. “You do know your house is under siege by the press, don’t you? I saw a live broadcast on TV earlier.”
* * *
THE FIRST REPORTER KNOCKED on the door at seven. Thinking Jules had forgotten her keys, Lee hauled on jeans and opened it, smothering a yawn. A camera flashed in his face.
“What the—”
“Sergeant Davis, I’m Jessica Forrester of the New Zealand Chronicle.” Reaching past the smiling blonde’s shoulder, Lee covered the lens behind her before the photographer could peel off another shot. “I wonder if I could come in and talk to you and your fiancée about the first day home.”
“No, you may not.” He returned her smile. “Please leave the property.” Removing his hand from the camera lens, he closed the door.
Shit.
“Just to be clear—” the reporter’s voice echoed through the mail slot “—we’re prepared to pay for an exclusive interview.”
“Just to be clearer, having been asked to leave, you’re now officially trespassing.” Crossing to the window, he tweaked the blinds for a view of the street. A TV van was pulling up to the curb. And so it begins.
Locking all the doors, Lee returned to bed and read up on amnesia, ignoring the succession of knocks and doorbell rings as other reporters tried their luck.
Then he dressed, stealing some of Jules’s hair gel to man up his hair. In hospital he’d told the barber to keep some length to help hide his face’s gauntness. Used to brandishing clippers, the guy had left Lee with a kind of bob. “My God, you’re an ugly bastard,” he told his reflection.
He labored through push-ups and sit-ups, then brewed coffee, plated two muffins and pulled an armchair into Jules’s home office, where he adjusted the blinds for a better view of the street and settled in. These people didn’t realize how low he’d been on entertainment. Biting into a muffin, he grimaced. Dry as an Afghani desert. Lee dropped it into the trash and settled for coffee.
By eight-thirty there were three TV crews milling outside the gate and an elderly neighbor was being interviewed. Lee amused himself by providing the dialogue. “I wish to hell she’d paint the front of her house.”
Hunger pangs drove him to the kitchen, where he ate a banana, then rummaged for a recipe book and baked a fresh batch of muffins. So many bowls and spoons and stuff to play with. When the batter was mixed he spooned half into the muffin pan and ate the remainder raw, relishing the crunch of sugar. Which reminded him—he found a phone directory and booked an appointment with a local dentist.
His cell rang as he was sliding the tray of muffins out of the oven. Checking the number, he saw it was Jules and switched the phone off.
Last night, he’d dreamed of having sex with her, in images so vivid they were still imprinted on his brain. The slow, sensual mapping of her delectable body, the tight warm clasp of her around his cock...and the deep intimacy of two people meant to be together.
He couldn’t have remembered one of the lusty, fun times in the sack. Oh no, he had to recall the time she’d cried making love and his tenderness for her had flayed him.
The continual knocking became annoying so he borrowed the iPod on her bedside table. Scanning the content, he discovered she labeled music under tasks. Jogging.
Curious, he checked the playlist. Michael Jackson’s Thriller album.
Housework. Lee grinned. Metallica.
Work. Vivaldi. No lyrics to distract her.
Lee. He stared at the screen. All his favorites—Pink Floyd, The Civil Wars, White Stripes, Farnham. She must have compiled it after they’d met. He stuck in the earbuds and went outside to check the backyard for escape routes.
Behind the fruit trees at the end of the garden an old fence bowed under the weight of a rambling rosebush. Beyond it, a gate led to a service alley full of trash cans. Perfect. Next to it was a vegetable garden overgrown with weeds.
In the rusty corrugated garden shed Lee picked up a spade and started digging in the garden. The earth turned easily, loamy and soft, unlike the barren, rocky Afghanistan soil.
Something touched his shoulder, and instinctively he struck out. Jules went sprawling. Ripping out the earbuds, he dropped to his knees beside her. “I’m so sorry...you okay?”
Dazed, she touched her cheek. “I guess you didn’t hear me coming... I did call but...”
Lee pulled her fingers away. “I bruised you.” On second glance it was too dark to be fresh. He had an intimate acquaintance with the life cycle of bruises.
“It’s old. I forgot to cover it with concealer this morning.”
Still upset, he helped her up, running his hands down her arms, ascertaining she was okay. “Next time throw a stone to get my attention.” The joke came out all wrong, harsh and self-recriminatory. He wanted to torment her, but not for her to be physically afraid of him.
Jules bent to pick up a clod of dirt, weighing it in her palm. “About this size?”
Tension uncoiled inside him. “Funny girl. Speaking of funny, I’m guessing the press got a few laughs when you parked the Caddy in the garage.”
“It caused some amusement,” she admitted, laying cool fingers on his forehead. “How are you feeling?”
“Before or after eating your banana muffins?” Restless under her touch, he moved away.
“Funny boy.” She picked up her briefcase, brushed off the dirt. “I see you made a new batch.”
“Something to do with my hands.” Their gazes connected, shied away. “The nausea’s passed,” he added. His body had adjusted to the meds.
“I tried phoning,” she said. “Your cell kept going to message.”
Lee retrieved the spade. “I switched it off.”
“In case the press got hold of the number? That’s unlikely.”
With a noncommittal shrug, he returned to digging.
“I’ve fielded calls from Nate, Ross and Dan, not to mention Rob and Connie. Everyone’s panicking because they can’t get hold of you.”
Dammit, he thought he’d dispensed with minders.
“Even if you could send a group text saying, ‘Still alive,’ it would—”
“Don’t manage me, Jules, I’ve had enough of being told—” He jabbed the spade in the earth. “All I want is a couple of days to do what I want!”
“And we all understand that,” she said. “But with the media staking the house, your family and friends need to hear you’re okay.”
He’d forgotten what it was like to be cared about. The doorbell rang. They both ignored it. He might resent Jules’s intimacy with his family and friends, but these days she could predict their reactions better than he could. Reluctantly, Lee took his cell out of his jean pocket and switched it on.
“Thank you,” she said. “And I have something for you.” She opened her briefcase and presented an official-looking document.
“What is it?”
“I’m acknowledging your right to the return of your estate. It saves you filing through the courts.”
“Over the page—” Jules turned it for him “—you’ll see I’m also reimbursing my travel costs for the trips with your dad. And that figure there—” one slender finger pointed “—is the sum total of interest accrued.”
Apparently, four percent interest on $120,000 for two months came to $800. “Isn’t the interest covered by the bank, when the term deposit matures?”
She paused, so slightly he nearly missed it. “Just spelling out what you’ll be receiving.”
He looked at her, trying to work out her game. “Why are you reimbursing travel?”
“Just because we’re engaged doesn’t mean I feel any sense of entitlement,” she said.
“Okay.” Given her intention to dump him as soon as she could justify it, this was a clever move. It presented her in a positive light to their friends, his family. Come to think of it, media attention lifted the stakes for someone whose professional reputation relied on goodwill from the Whangarei community. She really couldn’t afford to put a step wrong.
Rolling the document, Lee tapped it against his thigh. “You know what I love most about you, Jules?” he said. “Your integrity. It’s cockamamy in this case—hell, we’re engaged and I trust you. But given how much you like to dot i’s and cross t’s, I respectfully accept.” No point in looking a gift horse in the mouth, and she was correct. This did make the legalities easier. “One thing puzzles me. Why didn’t you accept the legacy when I left it to you?”
“I felt your father had more right to it.” Her earnestness was a nice touch.
“It must have come as a big surprise when he bequeathed it to you again in his will.”
“Yes.” Her brow creased. “Especially when I thought I’d talked him out of it.”
