by Kris Pearson
“Beer?” she asked in a strangled voice, remembering the six-pack he’d parked in Gran’s fridge and that she’d taken such exception to.
“In a mo.”
He squatted to collect up some of the broken flooring, firing the shards through onto the sheet in the dining room with deadly accuracy. He looked scarily angry. Was he working off his frustration at her lack of co-operation about letting him demolish her house?
She breathed out slowly, then licked her suddenly dry lips as she admired the snug blue denim over his taut butt and thighs.
When he rose again and turned in her direction, she grabbed for the broom, desperate to hide the fact she’d been practically eating him alive. She avoided his brilliant blue eyes by dropping her gaze to the floor and sweeping with much more force than was necessary.
“Don’t go overboard,” he drawled, reaching for the beers. “There might be asbestos in this old stuff. Come outside and let the dust settle.”
Anton stood with her under the laden peach tree, watching her throat as she took small sips from her bottle. He tipped his up and drank deeply, thirsty after the physical exertion.
Jetta reached out and tested one of the peaches for ripeness. “Nearly ready,” she said, apparently wanting to fill the awkward silence between them. “Gran used to preserve these. There might be some jars of them left from last year.”
He nodded but didn’t reply. The old lady’s cooking skills were the last thing on his mind. From this angle the sun lit Jetta’s breasts perfectly. She’d been braless under her T-shirt that morning. Not expecting visitors. Not expecting him, for sure.
She’d been hot and dusty, soft and gently jiggling.
But she’d dressed up to go out. Now she’d changed back into the same thin old shirt she’d worn that morning and he could see the bra she’d left under it.
A very low cut bra. With a just-visible band of lace or embroidery on the top edge of the cups. Surely her nipples were barely covered? It was black or chocolate or wine red; the outline darker against her pale skin. Just the thought of that pale fragrant skin made him swallow.
He loved underwear. Always thought silly shiny scraps of lace and ribbon enhanced a woman’s body—not to mention they gave him the pleasure of slowly revealing what lay concealed beneath them.
He took another gulp of beer. His groin prickled and tightened as he speculated.
Damn. Not now. Keep her annoyed. Keep her at a distance.
“I’ll start moving in tonight,” he said.
Jetta whirled around and faced him. “You will not!” she ground out between clenched teeth. “You said Monday, and as far as I’m concerned by Monday lunchtime I’ll have the proof I need to stop you from moving in at all.”
“Not going to happen, babes. Half this old dump is mine.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Her gorgeous breasts rose with a deeply gasped breath of indignation. The sensation in his groin intensified.
“You can’t move in before the funeral anyway,” she added.
“What time’s that?”
“Ten on Monday morning—and you’re not invited.”
“Fine by me.” He tore his eyes away from her sunlit breasts. “I presume you wouldn’t have started ripping up the kitchen floor if you’d invited people back here afterward?”
She shook her head. “I arranged everything yesterday with the funeral director and the matron of the Eventide Hospital, and put a notice in tonight’s paper.” She bowed her head. “I’ve let Gran’s closest friends and neighbors know what’s happening. A simple service at the chapel in the cemetery, then morning tea in the hospital lounge, and that’s it. Indecently fast, but there won’t be many people.”
“Well, while you’re drinking tea, I’ll get the legal proof sorted for you.”
Her chin shot up again and her eyes fixed on his. “God, you’re horrible! It’s not a tea-party—I’m burying my lovely Gran. How would you feel if she were yours?” Furious, she reached out, snapped a peach off the tree, and fired it at him. It hit him on the chest and then glanced off onto the lawn.
“Feeling better now?” he asked, wiping the juicy splodge off his skin.
“I won’t feel better until I know this is some sort of stupid dream. Or nightmare.” She huffed out a deep sigh.
He tipped the last drops of beer from his bottle and set it down by the trunk of the tree. “Let’s get back to your nightmare kitchen then.”
Jetta flounced off in front of him, calling back over her shoulder, “And don’t leave glass in my garden—bring it inside for the recycling bin.”
He hoped his laugh would set her even further on edge.
That’s the way. Get her rattled. Keep her mad at you. This is only going to work if you stay well clear of her.
He bent for the bottle and strolled inside.
Jetta poked at the pile of linoleum fragments with the toe of her sneaker. “You don’t really think there’s asbestos in this, do you?” She looked so anxious that his resolve to keep her on edge softened somewhat.
“It’s probably too old,” he said, bending to examine it. “When vinyl first replaced linoleum they sometimes used asbestos in the backing, but this stuff looks solid all through.”
“I knew that,” she said, but she swept up the rest of the fragments and the dust with care, and tied it into a plastic bag before carrying it out to the growing pile on the front lawn.
He surveyed the devastation as he unpacked the tape and roller and his old brushes. Her final sweeping had removed almost all of the remains; the finish was not too bad at all.
“Have a scrape at that last piece,” he suggested, indicating a patch where the glue had been thicker. “Good result otherwise.”
Jetta ignored him and glared at the cupboards instead. “One day,” she said, “I’ll do something about all those pink doors.”
“We could whack a bit of white over them?”
“No, the surrounds are too creamy. White would look terrible.”
“Won’t be for long enough to worry about.”
She sent him a sub-zero glare. “Maybe a neutral sisal shade until I can afford to do the proper kitchen remodeling,” she challenged.
“Waste of paint. It’ll be gone in a few months.”
She poked her tongue out and turned away. A pointed little tongue as pink as the cupboard doors.
He took a deep breath. No distractions. Certainly no imagining that moist rosy tongue mating hotly with his, or sliding like silk over his skin once he’d moved into the bedroom next to hers...
“We’ll start in the dining room,” he suggested in a tone as frustrated as he felt. “I’ll unhook those god-awful curtains, and if we drag the sideboard out together you can start taping around the architraves.” He hoped he sounded businesslike. He didn’t feel it. The combination of her cute little body and sassy face and tart comments had him way on edge.
“So what are you going to do?” She set her hands on her hips and glared at him.
“Follow along the edges with a paintbrush. Then I’ll roll the walls.”
“I’ll give some of them a wipe first—they’re pretty dusty.”
And half a minute later she was crawling along the floor, pert bottom angled toward him, scrubbing a damp rag over the top of the skirting boards.
Anton stood back and watched her shuffling and shifting, rump in the air. As she worked, the old cream T-shirt crept higher and higher until a slice of slender waistline was exposed. She seemed entirely innocent of her posture, or of any effect it might have on him.
He turned and sought refuge in the kitchen, trying hard not to imagine ripping her shorts down and diving between her warm, bare, slightly parted thighs.
Man, you’ve gotta stop thinking things like this about her!
Blessed distraction came in the form of a calendar featuring a pair of beribboned kittens.
“Hey—it’s your birthday,” he exclaimed, noticing the spidery old writing under the dat
e.
Jetta looked back over her shoulder. “How do you know that?
“It’s on the calendar here.”
“Did she really remember?” The husky catch in her voice told him it mattered a lot.
“Shaky old-fashioned writing—bet it’s not yours.”
“Oh Gran, you absolute darling,” she murmured softly. “You hadn’t forgotten everything after all.”
He saw the brightness of unshed tears in her silver-shadowed eyes, and hoped she wasn’t going to collapse in a howling heap again.
“So are you partying?” he asked with a degree of desperation.
“Yeah, right,” she muttered. “Gran’s only just dead. You’re stealing half my house. I’ve got plenty to celebrate.”
“Boyfriend taking you to dinner, maybe?”
Why do I want the answer to be ‘no’?
She shook her head. “I had lunch with my old flat-mates. I’m fine with that, given what’s happened.”
“So that’s where you were. We still haven’t popped that Moet. We’ve an extra reason to drink it now.”
She sat back on her heels and smiled very slightly.
“Okay,” she agreed. “Once we’ve got a bit more of this done.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Much later, he surveyed the finished effect of the white painted walls in the dining room and nodded with satisfaction. “Hell of a lot better,” he said, setting the roller to rinse under running water. “I’m going home for a shower. Come over about seven-thirty and I’ll rustle up something to eat with the wine.”
When Jetta eventually knocked on his door, he registered red high heels, snug black leather trousers, spicy perfume, and a silky red top with a neckline that made him clench his teeth and draw a fast deep breath. He didn’t need this!
Cursing to himself, he ushered her through to a sheltered courtyard where he’d set up an outdoor table with two big white dinner plates, two tall glasses, and a selection of packages and pottles from the best deli in town.
“Birthday dinner,” he said as he pulled out a chair for her. As she sat, he glanced down. Her bra was definitely wine red, and defiantly low cut. A line of cobwebby black lace whispered across the half way line of her gorgeous breasts. He imagined tiny matching panties, and her curvy body showing them off to perfection.
This time he didn’t try to rein back his fantasy. Treats were meant to be enjoyed on birthdays—and she’d never notice he was hard as hell as long as he stayed standing partly behind her.
Her gaze roved the table with apparent pleasure. “You didn’t have to do this for me. I’ve been nasty to you all day.”
“Well, you’ve just made up for it, looking like that.”
I’m only being polite. Just complimenting her on her birthday. It’s not like I’m putting a move on her.
“You like?” she asked, angling a coquettish look up at him. “Gran really disapproved of these trousers, but...”
“Yeah—there’s no Gran to disapprove any more. I definitely like. Truce for the next hour or so?”
She grinned at that. “I could probably last about that long.”
Anton attended to some of the food, prizing lids off pottles, and tape from packages. Jetta tackled the rest with murmurs of appreciation.
“Happy Birthday, housemate,” he said, reaching for the bottle of champagne.
“You wish,” she drawled.
“I know,” he countered. “I don’t waste my time on projects that go nowhere.”
She pressed her lips together in a determined line. “We’ll see.”
He uncorked the bottle and leaned over her shoulder. Wine foamed into the two glasses, and he handed one to her. “To the future—whatever it holds.”
She nodded, and took a sip. “Whatever it holds,” she repeated.
He walked stiffly round the table and sat, telling himself it was just the black lace, just those snug trousers, just the unexpected sparkle in her big eyes... “What would you like your future to hold?” he asked, by way of distraction.
Jetta tipped her head on one side and half closed those same big dark eyes that attracted him against his will. “A trip to New York first of all. There’s a design school there with an impressive reputation. With a qualification from them, I’ll be much closer to achieving what I want. My own decorating studio. ”
“Back here in New Zealand?”
“Absolutely. Specializing in heritage work for people who want to restore older houses. Not necessarily homes on the Historic Places Register—but maybe some of the big turn of the century mansions in Thorndon and Kelburn. And the pretty Edwardian houses, and twenties and thirties bungalows like Gran’s.”
“Like ours.”
“Whatever.” The expression in her eyes switched from dreamy to exasperated, and she set down her glass too hard and turned her attention to the selection of deli goodies. Anton felt dismissed, and didn’t like it.
After a too-long silence she asked, “What are your plans?”
He watched her across the table as she picked up morsels of food and set them on her plate. Even before he tasted his champagne, his reality seemed to have shifted. The morning’s dusty and shocked caterpillar had transformed herself into a self-possessed and beautiful butterfly. And his body assured him it liked the change. Would be happy to get to know the pretty butterfly who fluttered just out of reach, but temptingly close.
He brought his glass to his nose and savored the wine’s bouquet to buy more time. Took a gulp. Swallowed deeply. “Ten years ago I’d have said ‘to be a partner in a really good architectural practice’ but things change. I’ve achieved that, and now I find my heart’s in property development. More risk, more money, but I get to build more of what I want. Clean modern buildings. Right at the cutting edge of style.”
“Cold and faceless, you mean?”
He wouldn’t let her get away with that. “Innovative. Aesthetically right for the twenty-first century. Eco efficient. Vigorous functional designs that are people-friendly.”
“People-friendly!” Jetta scoffed. “Brutal, ugly, dehumanizing buildings, if you ask me.”
“What’s ‘dehumanizing’ about Ballentine Park Mews? I’m making ideal use of the land.”
“Everyone jammed so tightly together...”
“You need never see your neighbors if you don’t want to; I’ve planned total privacy. The apartments will be double-glazed, properly insulated, and thermal efficiency will keep the need for artificial heating to a minimum. More than you can say for some of those drafty old rabbit warrens you seem so fond of.”
Her eyebrows winged up. “But they’re beautiful,” she insisted. “The high ceilings and deep cornices, the wide stairways with their carved banisters, the generous spaces...”
“All of which are wasteful.”
“So you think everyone should live in white painted, hard surfaced, glass fronted, square-stopped boxes?”
He caught the twitch of her mouth and the glimmer of mirth in her eyes just in time. “Stop winding me up,” he said, enjoying the thrust and parry of their argument more than he should be. She was the enemy. She was the one who just hours ago had treated him as though he was a loathsome liar trying to steal her home.
Now she sat at his table, eating food and drinking wine that he’d provided, looking pretty damn edible herself. And he wondered how else he could impress her.
God—if she could see what was refusing to die down in his pants she’d be impressed...
Jetta searched her addled brain for some sort of equilibrium. Her head felt full of unraveling knitting—as tangled as Gran’s sometimes used to get when old Pusscat found the wool bag and had a field day.
This was hopeless. She smiled, despite her best efforts not to.
Anton didn’t deserve smiles. He’d frightened her half to death by bursting right in to her home that morning and saying he was going to demolish it. He hadn’t even knocked.
Then he’d pretended she should know all about it.
And yet...? She’d somehow found the courage to come back here with him—and into his bedroom, no less.
Because that’s where the plans were, of course.
Yes, she’d panicked a little, but not too badly. Then visions of Anton had taken over from thoughts of Uncle Graham as they stood together at the drawing board, even if it was only for a few dreamy seconds.
Maybe it was okay now because there was the table between them, and she knew he couldn’t reach across and grab her. Even so, it amazed her. He’d declared he’d be moving in to Gran’s house, although she was determined he wouldn’t be, and she still found him good company.
She took another sip of her wine and inspected him covertly. In the softening light of near dusk his skin looked a deeper gold.
His face was long, like his body. Dark hair sprang back from his smooth forehead, short around his ears and at his neckline. But it stood up a couple of inches on top of his head, thick and a little unruly, as though he often thrust his fingers back through it.
How would it feel, running my hands through it?
Her fingertips itched with anticipation, and she lowered her gaze a little.
Above his vivid blue eyes, his brows were strong and almost straight. As thick and dark as the hair on his head.
He was freshly shaved. She liked that he’d done that for her. Or had he? Maybe he always shaved when he showered? But somehow she knew he’d made an extra effort because of her birthday.
His shirt had a couple of buttons undone at the neck. A proper business shirt, not just a casual polo or tee. The spicy brown complimented his sun-gilded skin. He’d flipped the sleeves back a couple of turns, and the tendons moved in his forearm as he stabbed a morsel of smoked salmon.
She flicked her eyes back up to his face. High cheekbones under those amazing eyes, and slightly hollowed cheeks. The words ‘lean and hungry’ sprang easily to mind.
He had a long, straight nose—no tell-tale bumps to indicate mishaps on the rugby field. She pictured him loping along on a cricket pitch, or arrowing down off a high diving board, sleek and controlled.
