After one more look at her son, she slid her gaze back to Nate. “I don’t need to go to hospital for a sprained ankle.”
“So sit, and I’ll stick a compression bandage on it.”
She hopped to the seat opposite him and sat.
He held out his hand. “Foot.”
“Do you always administer first aid to strangers?” She tugged up the leg of her yoga pants and placed her left foot in his outstretched palm. Warmth soaked into her skin. She nearly squirmed.
Nate rested her heel on his knee. “Only the pretty ones, but not usually ones with big, vicious dogs.”
Lauren rolled her eyes, ignoring the shivers spiraling up her leg from the rough denim touching her skin. “Java’s not vicious.”
“Another misunderstood Rottweiler, huh?” He twisted the cap off the Arnica cream.
Wild flutters exploded inside her stomach. She didn’t want his touch, didn’t want him this close. Close enough that the enticing top notes of sandalwood in his cologne tickled her nose.
He must’ve felt her foot shift, as his green gaze jerked to hers.
“I’ll try not to hurt you again.”
Did he remember her overreaction on the road? Better he think her a wimp than suspect the real reason. “I guess I have a low tolerance for pain.”
“Don’t we all.” Nate bent forward, squeezing a small amount of the cream onto her ankle.
She flinched and grabbed the chair edge.
He crooked an eyebrow. “That couldn’t have hurt.”
“No, it didn’t hurt. It’s just cold.”
Their gazes met, held for an awkward beat before she looked down at the blob of cream. His fingers slid under her calf to support the weight of her leg, while his other hand stroked ointment over the swollen skin. Each stroke of those long fingers sent warm swirls of sensation dancing up her back and across her scalp. She should’ve spread the cream on herself, which begged the question of why she hadn’t.
Lauren risked a glance up from her ankle to find Nate watching. She cleared the half dozen frogs from her throat.
“Have you taken first aid courses?”
He gave a brief shake of his head. “Not formal ones. My mother’s a nurse, so I picked up the basics. The rest I learned on the job.”
“As a photojournalist, not a photographer.”
After unraveling the end of the bandage, he wound it around her foot and ankle in a figure eight. “Uh-huh.”
“Is it a dangerous job?”
“Sometimes. Mainly when bullets are flying.”
“You’ve been shot at?”
“More than once.”
She winced as Nate secured the bandage with a safety pin. “Maybe you should’ve chosen to be a wedding photographer; it sounds safer.”
“You ever witness a bridezilla on her wedding day?” He smiled, the transformation from serious to stunning causing the stomach fluttering to escalate.
Refusing to acknowledge the tension between her shoulder blades thanks to the prolonged contact of Nate’s hand, Lauren allowed a brief grin to cross her mouth. “No, I haven’t.”
But she’d been on photo shoots with young women high on amphetamines and low on proper nutrition, both of which contributed to their hysterical temperaments.
“Yeah, well me either—and I don’t intend to. I’ll leave the psychotic brides and screaming babies to someone else. Political coups are much more my scene.”
“I bet you can’t wait to get back to the action?”
Back to the action and far, far away from the safe little life she’d clawed out for her and her son. At least the man wouldn’t be hanging around over summer, inviting his nosy reporter pals up for a few beers.
“Absolutely, I—”
A murmur and rustle from the couch, a whimper.
“Drew—”
Lauren pushed herself off the chair and Nate’s hand slipped from her foot.
But she was too late.
Caught in a nightmare’s grip, his mouth twisted and contorted, Drew cried out. “No, Daddy! No. Please!”
Chapter 2
Nate tried to catch Lauren’s gaze, but she was gone, hopping over to cuddle her wailing son. The muscles in his back stretched piano-wire tight. He didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to connect A to B to C. Woman without a wedding band, big dog with bigger teeth, and a skittish kid with nightmares involving “Daddy.”
His fingers curled into a white-knuckled fist as he eyed the hairline crack in the brick archway. Would the whole ceiling collapse if he punched it?
Back off. You can’t get involved in this type of drama again. He closed his eyes, uncurling one stiff finger at a time.
The kid’s sobs tapered off to wet snuffles. “I’m hungry. Where’s my monkey-roni?”
Lauren murmured soothing noises while stroking his tear-streaked cheek.
“I’m making dinner tonight, mate. Want to help?” Nate blinked. Why had he opened his mouth and made that offer?
Drew peeped over his mother’s shoulder. “Don’t you know how to cook monkey-roni?”
She turned. “Mr. Fraser—”
“Haven’t we gone beyond surnames now?”
Her lips pressed together for a moment. “Nate, then. I appreciate all you’ve done, but you don’t need to stay any longer. I’ve got—”
Drew touched his mother’s jaw, turning her face back to him. “I’m a big boy, and I can help. He said so.”
“Rest your ankle. Drew and I will fix—just what is monkey-roni?”
Even saying the word made Nate feel like a complete idiot. Single guy with no dependents and an only child to boot, he was without the usual hoard of nieces and nephews crawling all over him.
“It’s what he calls macaroni cheese.” She hugged Drew closer. “Nate needs to go home.”
“No he doesn’t. He said he could stay.” The kid frowned then said in a stage whisper, “You don’t need to be scared of him, Mummy. You told me he was a good guy.”
Despite the fact no woman should have to categorize men as either good or bad to a little kid, Nate bit back a grin. “It’s true. I am one of the good guys, maybe even a superhero like Superman.”
He tossed Drew’s pajamas over, and she caught them with one hand without making eye contact.
Drew’s jaw sagged. “Coooool.”
Nate left Lauren helping Drew change, while he entered the kitchen. He opened the pantry doors and found a plastic container of pasta elbows with a wobbly, hand drawn label that read “Monkey-roni.” Now what?
“Got any of the boxed stuff?” he asked.
“Sorry, no.”
Drew wriggled away from his mother and peeked around the island counter. “Mummy won’t buy that. She says it’s rubbish food.”
Yeah, going by her fridge contents, he should’ve guessed.
“You gotta cook the monkey-roni first.”
Drew edged a little farther out, closer to the kitchen. Behind him, Lauren sat sideways on the couch, her ankle propped on a cushion.
“Pots are in the cabinet below the sink,” she called out.
Her helpful tone didn’t fool him for a minute.
“The whisk for making the cheese sauce is in the jar beside the stove,” she added.
Whisk? What on earth was a whisk?
He squatted down to Drew’s level and crooked his finger. “Uh, Drew? Can you show me what a whisk is?”
Drew grinned, clapping one hand over his mouth and pointing with the other at the pottery jar filled with metal utensils.
“Which one?” Nate asked. “The spiky one that looks like a hedgehog?”
The boy hesitated for a beat then held up his arms. Nate looked back at Lauren, who watched this exchange with a stunned expression. She must’ve seen the question in his eyes because she nodded. He lifted the kid as if Drew had dynamite strapped to his body, tilting him forward. Solemn-faced, the boy pulled a wire thing from the jar and passed it to Nate.
He lowered the kid to the floor
, watching for signs of an imminent freak-out. He gestured to an apron hanging on the pantry door. “It’s gonna get messy in here so I’d better put that on; what do you think?”
“But it’s pink!”
“Not a problem. I’m not allergic.” Nate grabbed the apron and pulled it over his head. The subtle scent of flowers overpowered him—the same scent he’d caught on Lauren’s skin. His head reeled for a second, remembering. God, she’d smelled good, even mud-splattered and dripping wet.
A soft giggle hauled him back into the present.
“You look funny.”
One smile, one giggle, and the kid had him hooked. He’d do more than wear a frilly pink apron to make this serious little boy laugh again. “So will you, mate, by the time we figure out how to cook monkey-roni.”
“You gotta eat it too.”
He should say no. Drive to his new investment and hunker down for the night with a can of baked beans and a beer. Nate slanted a glance at Lauren. “What does your mum say?”
“Please can Nate stay, Mummy? Please?”
Denial and politeness warred for dominance on her face. The woman couldn’t act, that was for sure. Politeness won.
“All right. If we have to suffer through his cooking, he should at least eat it too.”
Nate turned back to the stove and winked at Drew. How hard could monkey-roni be, really?
Thirty minutes later, Nate winced at the smell of scalded milk permeating Lauren’s kitchen. Monkey-roni was harder than it looked.
“Order up.”
He dropped a pot into the sink and carried the food to the table with his little shadow trailing behind him with the flatware.
“You okay there, mate?” he asked.
Drew nodded, placing a spoon beside each bowl. “Come on, Mummy. It’s ready.”
Lauren hopped over to sit beside her son. She raised the spoon to her lips.
“Well?”
Her mouth twisted as if she’d accidently sucked on a lemon wedge. “Mmm.”
Nate dug into his meal. Maybe the cheese sauce was runny and had an odd, smoky flavor, but it still beat the microwave dinners he regularly ate when working long hours.
Lauren sipped her water. “Are you going to fix up the MacPherson homestead?”
“That’s my plan.”
“The house is pretty run down.”
Nate showered his remaining pasta with salt. “It needs some work, or so I’ve heard.”
“You’ve never seen the property?”
He shook his head. “I bought it off Tom MacPherson sight unseen—except for some photos. He said his granddad’s place needed a bit of elbow grease, but I’m not afraid of hard work.”
“And you’re planning to fix it up by yourself?” Skepticism oozed through her voice.
“The bits I can. I know my way around a toolbox.”
“How will you live there while you’re renovating?”
He raised his glass of water in a silent toast. “It’s a two bedroom house; I’ll work around it—and I’ve got a sleeping bag, beer and plenty of rubbish food to keep me going. All the luxuries.”
“A photojournalist, a medic and a handyman…anything you can’t do?”
Drew, who squirted dollops of ketchup into his bowl, looked up. “Cook monkey-roni like Mummy.”
A giggle burbled past her lips and the sound of her laughter warmed Nate’s insides more than the overcooked pasta.
“Hey, whose side are you on?” Nate grinned down at the boy. He really was a cute kid.
“I’ll make you a home-cooked meal sometime in thanks for all your help tonight.”
“I’d like that.”
Her gaze skidded left, the spoon clinking against her plate. “Oh—I mean I’ll get my brother to drop something off, since I’m assuming you won’t have access to a microwave for a while.”
Ah, and the back-pedaling starts. Thanks lady—but he wasn’t that desperate for a meal. “Sure.”
They ate in silence for a few moments before she put down her spoon. “The MacPherson homestead will be a gorgeous place to live, once it’s been overhauled.”
Nate paused, a gluey chunk of pasta halfway to his mouth. Live here? Not a chance. “I’m not staying once the renovations are done.”
“Oh?” The pretty brow crinkled again.
“I’ve got a buyer lined up in Auckland.”
Lauren stood and picked up her empty pasta bowl. “You’re selling it?”
“A developer’s planning to turn the homestead into an exclusive retreat—upmarket, classy, for celebrities and the like.” Nate lowered his spoon at her tightly drawn mouth and stunned stare—as if he’d mentioned the Manson Family were moving in next door.
Lauren’s pasta bowl clattered to the table, the spoon toppling out and falling to the floor. “Celebrities? Celebrities will bring fans and the media.”
Nate frowned until the light bulb switched on—her private road. “The developer will build a new road to the property with a locked gate, just like yours. No need to worry about traffic jams outside your place in summer.”
She nodded stiffly, and a small smile carved her lush lips into two thin lines. “Well, that’s good then.” Turning to her son she said, “Can you take my plate to the kitchen, please, sweetie? Then we’d better get you ready for bed.”
And that was the lovely but Über-Uptight Lauren’s cue for him to get the hell out of her house.
***
Nate sure knew how to kill a mood. The Range Rover’s headlights cut through diagonal swaths of rain as he approached the MacPherson property line. Make it the Fraser property line, for the time being. His knuckles clenched in pointed bumps on the steering wheel as he gunned the engine up the last rise to the plateau.
Under Lauren’s cool stare, he’d pumped up a couple of air beds for them in the family room, so she wouldn’t break her neck trying to get to the bathroom in the middle of the night. A few minutes later, he’d been politely evicted, the recipient of condescending glances from the dog at the back door. By that time, he’d been glad to go.
Nate composed a silent memo to hire a chainsaw for his driveway as tree branches and stalks of gorse slashed the car’s sides. Talk about overgrown…The delivery trucks would never make it up here. He crested the hill, the headlights sweeping over Mac’s homestead.
His “hmm, not too bad” catapulted into “you’ve got to be kidding” as he parked in front. Water overflowed from the broken guttering, cascading from the missing downpipe over the flaky clapboard siding. A faded tarpaulin nailed over a window appeared to breathe as the wind sucked it in and puffed it out again.
Nate tugged on his hood, grabbed his flashlight and climbed out, a tornado gathering momentum in his gut.
This did not look good.
He swung the wide beam of light across knee-high weeds and clumps of gorse. Crowding in from all sides, the native bush had greedily reclaimed ground. Where were the flowerbeds, the paved pathways and the wooden bench facing the curve of a distant beach far below? Just how old were the photos Tom e-mailed six months ago? Granted, the shots showed the place needed work. But from what materialized by flashlight? It was a frickin’ jungle.
Nate stepped onto the deck. Beneath his boots, the spongy wood bowed, complained. Great. Rotten, and from the way the house sagged in one corner, the piles were probably screwed too. He pulled the keys from his hip pocket and unlocked the glass sliding door, which screeched and caught in its runner.
“Shit. This just keeps getting better,” he muttered and walked inside.
He’d come prepared for a few weeks of rough living. Crash on the floor in his sleeping bag, cook on a portable gas ring, even wash outdoors with a solar-powered shower. Nate shone the flashlight around the family room, dining room and kitchen.
Dank rot and the pungent stench of fresh rat droppings hit him seconds later. What remained of the carpet was liberally sprinkled with tiny brown pellets, and a wet blotch in the room’s center drew his gaze to the sta
ined ceiling.
This was not what he’d signed up for. There was roughing it, and then there was this dump. He’d done his time as a kid, lived in third-world conditions with his missionary parents. Spent months as an adult in countries whose definition of five-star meant only a few cockroaches infested the accommodations, rather than an army of them. He’d opt to do either of those things again than deal with this.
He trudged through drifts of rat poop to inspect the back wall. Water damage transformed the hideous, seventies wallpaper into a puffy, three-dimensional effect. The flashlight beam revealed a probable holey roof, which hadn’t weathered the last winter well.
How could he get this shack habitable before February? But if he didn’t, the deal with Martin Davis would fall through, and Nate would have sunk his life’s savings into this rat hole for nothing. Dreams of traveling the globe to create book number two? Dust in the wind.
Nate swore again and kicked a clump of moldy carpet. His mentor-turned-best-mate, Steve Peterson, would cackle his ass off if he could see Nate now.
Toughen up, boy. Everything’s temporary for men like us.
Temporary. He had to remember that.
But the crackling fire he’d built at Lauren’s house, the welcoming lights, heck, even the smoky smell of burned cheese sauce, swept a tide of yearning over him. And Lauren, who drew him with her enticing mix of edginess and warmth, sexiness and shyness. A woman who’d no doubt sic her guard dog on him should he return there tonight.
Rain hammered on the iron roof, and a rat, not as discerning as its other brethren who’d abandoned this hovel for drier lodgings, scuttled past his foot.
Looked as if he’d be spending the night in his car.
***
Late next morning, in the weak rays of cloud-strangled sunlight, Nate drove to Lauren’s house. He turned into her rutted driveway, and the explosion of flowers planted parallel to it impressed his photographer’s eye. Below the house spread the tilled rows of a vegetable garden, and farther down the manicured slope, following a fork in the driveway, protruded an outbuilding with roller doors he assumed was a garage.
Christmas Down Under: Six Sexy New Zealand & Australian Christmas Romances Page 101
