Fraser’s fingers moved, ever so slightly, but the movement became of itself a caress, and the laughter in his eyes changed to something far more threatening than laughter.
Fiona’s body was responding to his nearness, to the touch of his fingers, the expression of ... lust? ... in his eyes. No, she decided immediately; it wasn’t lust, but something quite different, something infinitely more complex.
Looking past his shoulder, she could see the snout of his utility vehicle in her driveway, realised he’d driven up without her even noticing. And realised she was now hopelessly within his control, like it or not.
‘Will you please let me go?’ she pleaded, unwilling to meet his eyes, afraid of her body’s reaction to his touch.
‘It’ll cost you a cup of coffee,’ he said, and the laughter in his voice rippled through its depths. ‘It isn’t often I have to chase old Blue through this kind of dawn caper, and,’ his voice altered subtly, ‘never with such a ... an unusual ending.’
And before she could think to reply he’d released her and was striding off to his vehicle, whistling the shaggy sheepdog in behind him.
‘You might put some clothes on, too,’ he growled over his shoulder. ‘Damned difficult to make an appropriate apology if I’m too distracted.’
‘Apology.. .my foot,’ Fiona muttered as she rushed for the house and the questionable sanctuary of her bedroom. Whatever the situation, the great and glorious Dare Fraser was enjoying every minute of her discomfort, and didn’t even have the decency to deny it.
As she threw on her clothing and quickly ran a brush through her hair, she heard him enter the house, speaking softly to Lala as he did so. And without even so much as a growl from the treacherous, deceitful bitch, Fiona thought fiercely.
It was worse when she finally entered the kitchen to find he’d put the kettle on, was spooning out teaspoons of instant coffee, and Lala was fawning round his feet as he did so.
‘Some watchdog you are,’ Fiona muttered aloud. ‘You’re supposed to have his leg off, not fall in love.’
‘Don’t be so unprofessional; she can’t help her hormones any more than my poor old sheepdog out there,’ Dare grinned. ‘There’s no reason she has to be a man- hater just because you are.’
‘I ... I’m no such thing,’ Fiona replied, caught on the hop by his smiling assessment.
‘Which ... unprofessional or a man-hater?’ And the grin was even wider now. He had her going and he knew it.
Fiona fumed, but held her tongue until she had exactly the reply she wanted.
‘Neither, as a general rule. Although there would likely be exceptions to the first and I could make exceptions to the second,’ she said sternly.
Dare Fraser seemingly ignored the jibe. He silently poured boiling water into the two cups, added milk and sugar without asking, and passed one cup over to Fiona.
‘Here. Get your blood sugar boosted a bit; it might improve your disposition,’ he said with yet another grin.
‘There’s nothing wrong with my disposition,’ she replied sulkily. ‘Or at least nothing that not being exposed to mongrel bloody stud dogs at the crack of dawn wouldn’t cure.’
Dare Fraser shook his head sadly. ‘And you supposed to be the dog expert,’ he said. ‘Blue isn’t a mongrel; he’s a Smithfield:
And before she could say, ‘There’s no such proper breed,’ she was being given a salutary history lesson about Tasmanian sheepdogs.
CHAPTER FOUR
With their third cup of coffee, Fiona walked out with Dare Fraser for a closer look at his mongrel that wasn’t, her animosity mostly forgotten in her fascination with the tale she’d been listening to.
It had been fascinating, but did little to alter her first opinion about the dog’s inherent ugliness. He was, at first glance, something like an Old English sheepdog — if an amazingly scruffy one — but with a tail. And with colouring that was somehow not quite right. Fiona thought for a moment, then realised he was actually more like a Bearded Collie than an Old English, but certainly not a show specimen as she understood the term.
‘He’ll never win any beauty contests,’ she said with a shake of her head as the shaggy creature peered at her.
‘Your little bitch mightn’t agree,’ was the provocative reply. ‘Just shows there’s no accounting for taste, I suppose. Besides, he’s a working dog, not a show dog.’
‘I’d always thought Smithfields were a type of sheepdog, rather than a specific breed,’ she countered. ‘Certainly they’re not a registered breed for show purposes, not recognised by the national kennel authorities.’
‘You’re a chauvinist, did you know that?’ Dare’s accusation interrupted her thought, and the very word he’d used at first confused her.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Chauvinism, in the true sense of the word. You’re so hung up on the purity of breeding lines and the like that you’re blinded by the original purposes involved.’
‘I am not! I’ll admit to being concerned about breeding integrity, but I certainly am neither hung up about it, as you crudely put it, nor blind.’
‘Humph! I just hope you’re a little more open-minded when it comes your turn, or I pity the poor beggar you choose to sire your children.’
Fiona was unconscionably affected by this teasing turn. Her first instinct was to bridle at the man’s effrontery, but she also found herself wanting to shy completely away from such an intimate subject.
Her mouth, as usual, let her down.
‘I’m hardly likely to choose a husband the way I would a stud dog,’ she retorted, even as she realised this was no way to change the subject.
If Dare was offended by her brusque reply, he didn’t show it. ‘There’s a lot to be said for it, actually,’ he replied with a slow grin. ‘You’d probably want a fairly well-set-up sort of fellow, to be sure your boy children had the chance to be that way, and you wouldn’t want anybody too awfully ugly, or your girls might suffer.’
Fiona was silent; she didn’t like the way this was shaping up, not one bit. Dare, on the other hand, was quite clearly enjoying his flight of fancy,
‘I mean, after all, there’s no sense being as pretty as you are and then marrying some homely boy-next-door type and producing girls you have to provide dowries for just to get them off your hands.’
‘Oh ... stop being ridiculous,’ she complained. ‘There are far more important things than physical beauty, even when you’re breeding dogs. And with people, well ...’
‘All things have to be considered,’ he countered. ‘Even physical beauty, although I agree it’s hardly at the top of the list.’
‘Well, I’m so pleased you agree,’ she replied. ‘Not that I expect it matters very much, since I’m not planning marriage, much less a family, in the foreseeable future.’
‘Ah, but then you never know, do you?’ Dare grinned. ‘For all you know, your knight in shining armour might come riding up any day at all, without any warning. And you’d have to be ready, or you might just miss out.’
‘I won’t hold my breath.’
‘Of course not; you’d turn blue, which might be your colour clothing-wise, but I somehow don’t think it would be quite right for your face,’ he jested, and raised one dark eyebrow when he failed to get even a smile in reply.
Fiona didn’t know what to say. Already the subject was bringing up memories best forgotten, memories she did her best to forget. And Dare’s levity did nothing to ease the pain of those memories, much less to help her feel at ease discussing the subject.
‘Can we just change the subject?’ she finally asked, hoping directness might give her a way out.
‘We could, but why, I wonder? Is marriage and having children such an unpleasant topic for you? And if so, I wonder why. Is it because you’ve got a boyfriend tucked away somewhere ... or maybe even a husband?’
He knows, she thought, and shivered inside. Not that it was any great secret, but for some reason she would rather have bee
n able to tell Dare personally about her previous marriage, not have him find out from other sources. ‘Or is it that you don’t like discussing it with a possible candidate, I wonder,’ he continued, his grin now broader, more knowing.
He doesn’t know, she thought, and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. Then wondered why she should be so relieved! He wasn’t a candidate; she didn’t want or need a candidate as either a husband or the father of her children.
‘And if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be you,’ she muttered, then gasped as she realised she’d spoken aloud. Dare Fraser merely laughed at the faux pas.
‘Wouldn’t it, now? And why not, I wonder? Am I too old, too young, not tall enough, too tall, or is it just that you don’t fancy the colour of my eyes? Not very complimentary so early in the morning, are you?’
Fiona saw the laughter in his eyes, but try as she might she couldn’t see the same humour in the situation as he did. Her ears heard his jibes, but it was her entire self that related to his mocking questions. And she was quite suddenly faced with the fact that her self could find little if any fault with Dare Fraser, at least from a physical point of view.
He was, in his own terminology, well set up, and was, if not classically handsome, certainly good-looking. Fiona didn’t even need to look at him; she knew the colour of his eyes, the strength of his jaw line, the set of his broad shoulders. And she knew there was no really safe answer to his bantering teasing.
‘This early in the morning, you’re hardly an improvement on your mongrel of a dog,’ she finally countered. ‘Maybe you can argue on an empty stomach, but I can’t. And more coffee would only make it worse, so I suppose I’ll have to offer you breakfast and hope that’ll get rid of both of you.’
Dare’s grin was almost boyish and certainly infectious. ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he retorted, and led the way to the kitchen as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.
Thankfully, he dropped the subject of marriage as he sat at the kitchen table watching Fiona prepare bacon and eggs and toast and marmalade in quantities that would have kept her for several days on her own. But his silent appraisal was almost as bad; it was as if he was making a calculated study of her abilities in the kitchen.
But when she finally put the meal on the table and sat down across from Fraser, he opened the conversation not with food but with dogs.
‘Tell me a bit about this training you do,’ he began. ‘Is it just confined to conventional obedience, or gundog work, or what?’
Fiona laughed, comfortable now the conversation was on familiar ground. ‘It’s people training, if you really want to know," she said openly. ‘I hardly train the dogs at all; I train their owners, and hopefully, occasionally, they train their dogs. In theory, that’s how it works.’
She wasn’t prepared for Dare’s chuckle, much less for the question that followed.
‘And do you use your broomstick, or a cat-o’-ninetails, or just your sunny disposition?’
Fiona paused, fork half raised to her mouth, which she knew was open. Then she lowered the implement and stared hard at her guest, before allowing herself a slow smile and a shake of her head. Damn the man! He seemed able to get her goat without even half trying and, worse, he was enjoying it.
‘I use motivational training methods, for the dogs,’ she finally replied, wallowing in her ability to remain calm for once. ‘For the people, it’s more a matter of being a combination drill sergeant and outright tyrant, most of the time.’
And when he didn’t immediately reply, but merely nodded in apparent understanding, she resumed eating while keeping a careful eye on him. A most disconcerting man!
‘You ought to try feeding them,’ he finally said, lifting his fork in a small salute. ‘This is really very good, not least when you consider the way you were invaded this morning.’
‘Hardly an invasion,’ Fiona replied, acknowledging the compliment with a slight bow of her head.
‘Well, a distinct inconvenience, at the very least,’ Dare said. ‘And one that I propose to make up to you, if you aren’t too busy this evening.’
‘This evening? I did have plans to ...’ Her lame attempt at excuse-making was quickly forestalled.
‘To wash your hair, I suppose. That’s usually the quickest excuse, but in this case it won’t wear,’ Dare replied sternly. ‘You’ve fed me and I shall return the favour. Your hair, or whatever it was, can wait. There’s a brand-new Chinese restaurant in the city that’s begging to be tried, and I have no intention of going alone.’
‘I wasn’t trying to make excuses,’ Fiona lied. ‘It’s just that, well, I do have an early start tomorrow and I was a bit concerned you had something planned that would involve being late, that’s all.’
His look said he didn’t quite believe her. but he merely nodded his acceptance with a slow, almost gentle smile.
‘Good, that’s settled, then. And I promise to make sure my dog’s locked up, too, although I’d suggest you keep little missy here in the house just to be sure. There are occasional strays, and even a two-metre-high kennel wouldn’t stop some of them. Not in the circumstances.’
‘That’s why she’s been sleeping with me,’ Fiona replied, and couldn’t help adding, ‘Although she’s supposed to be a watchdog, as well.’
‘Obviously she knows I’m no threat,’ was the reply, but it was delivered with a mischievous grin that gave Fiona no room for complacency.
‘I think it’s more that she gets to be something of a tart when she’s in season,’ she replied. ‘Anything male and she’s fair game.’
‘Not like you,’ he muttered. Or she thought he did.
There was no chance to ask; already he was on his feet and marching to the sink, his mind obviously on other things.
‘I’ll wash,’ he said. ‘It’s easier that way, because you know where everything has to go once it’s dried.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she began to object, but to no avail. He’d already flung open the cupboard beneath the sink and found the dish soap, and had begun stacking things into the sink.
‘Not silly. I’m a top washer-upper,’ he said. ‘Not a bad cook, either, though hardly in your class, I expect. I’m spot-on with any kind of meat or fish, but I still have trouble with veggies; probably ‘cause I don’t eat as many as I should.’
‘That’s dumb,’ she replied without thinking. ‘Any damned fool can throw vegetables into hot water until they’re cooked, surely.’
‘That’s a very chauvinistic answer,’ he retorted, hands now buried in the sudsy water. ‘How, for instance, do you know when sweet corn’s cooked just right and ready to eat?’
Fiona absently reached for the plate he was finishing, struck dumb by the simplicity of the question. She had cooked sweet corn often enough, but the exact answer eluded her.
‘Well? Do you time it, or what?’ Dare handed her another plate and assaulted the rest with vigour as he waited for her answer.
‘By the smell!’ she suddenly cried. ‘You know it’s done when it smells done.’
‘Brilliant. And what does it smell like when it’s done? Like burnt lyres, or seared mutton, or—?’
‘Well, it smells like ... like ... well, like sweet corn,’ she stammered. What a silly question, not that the answer was much better.
Dare seemed unimpressed. Was unimpressed.
‘And you, of course, know exactly what sweet corn — cooked sweet corn — is supposed to smell like?’ he retorted. ‘Typical feminine reaction, but hardly of much use to somebody faced with the problem for the first time.’
‘That’s not fair! And anyway, it’s a silly example. There are far more common vegetables than sweet corn, and they’re easier to cook, as well.’
‘Maybe for you; I prefer to let other people resolve those particular mysteries, as I shall tonight,’ he replied, now seemingly bored by the discussion. ‘Speaking of which, what kind of Chinese food do you like best?’
It was an easy way out, and led to a sprightly discussion of th
e merits of Singapore fried noodles versus conventional noodles, whether various duck offerings should be boned or simply chopped up Chinese-style, and whether honey prawns should be sweet or savoury.
More important, it continued until the dishes were done and Fiona could logically expect the departure of her visitor.
‘I’ll collect you about six, if that’s OK,’ Dare said as he was leaving. ‘Thanks very much for the brekkie; let’s hope dinner can be as splendid.’
‘I’m sure it will be,’ Fiona replied, thinking to herself that her comment was likely a lie, regardless of how good the food might turn out to be.
And as she worked her way through the necessary weekend chores, it was difficult to concentrate on such mundane things as washing clothes — and her hair — in view of the prospects ahead.
‘It’s not as if it was a date, not really,’ she muttered to the dogs as they followed her from laundry to clothesline and back again. ‘He’s just paying me back for breakfast, that’s all.’
She didn’t really want to think of it as a date. Dare Fraser was far too volatile for her to want him involved in her life, especially not romantically. She didn’t need romance, she told herself. Didn’t need it and didn’t want it, especially not if romance would, as it must, involve the heady physical reactions she’d already found in Dare’s presence.
It would have been easier, she decided, if he’d remained the enemy she’d expected, instead of the good neighbour he seemed determined to appear.
In the same breath, she chided herself for being too trusting and not trusting enough, unable to come straight out with the admission that the man had given her no reason at all not to trust him.
‘Yet!’ she said, meanwhile sorting through her wardrobe for something appropriate to the occasion and cursing herself for not asking him about that when she’d had the chance.
Trousers were definitely out, although it had always been her impression that most Hobart restaurants were fairly informal at the best of times. She didn’t want to be too dressed up if he arrived in very casual gear, but on the other hand ...
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