Out of Bounds

by Kris Pearson

  But his mouth was the treat she saved for last. Exactly as wide as his nose was long, she thought, unconsciously measuring and memorizing. Was the symmetry why he looked so good?

  His top lip bowed sharply, but once again it was the sensuously full lower one that made her catch her breath. That sulky cushion of smooth flesh appeared to be the only soft thing about him, and all the more attractive for the contrast.

  It was nothing like Uncle Graham’s thin mean mouth that he used to press against hers in a slimy slobber when her parents were out of the house.

  She shivered and wrapped her arms across her breasts in an unconscious barrier.

  “What’s wrong?” Anton’s tone cut sharply through her memories.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your expression changed. You looked as though you’d seen something repulsive. And it was me you were looking straight at.”

  “No,” she protested. “Just an old memory. Someone long gone.”

  But he keeps coming back. Will I ever get rid of him?

  “Sorry,” she added, trying to make amends.

  “Another man?”

  “That would be a flattering description of him,” she murmured. “I’d go as far as ‘male animal’ perhaps.”

  “So why are you sitting here with me and thinking about someone else?” he pressed.

  She could hardly say ‘because you’re wonderful compared to him’. Anton appeared arrogantly sure of himself without her pumping his self esteem any higher. No—she needed to discourage him.

  “Just a birthday memory. Nothing special.”

  “But he didn’t treat you well? Not from that description?”

  This was the last thing she needed. She glanced down at her food and chased an olive around the plate to avoid looking at him again. And then—salvation—someone banged loud and long on her front door. The sharp noise of the knocker carried in the still air.

  “Visitors,” she said with relief, starting to rise.

  “I’ll let them know them where you are.” Anton strode off toward the front of the property.

  “She’s over here,” he called so someone unseen. A chuckle rose in Jetta’s throat at Hallie and Bren’s lively exclamations and giggles. Spying, of course.

  Soon the two girls came tottering up his driveway, glamorous in high shoes and short skirts.

  “We didnae mean to interrupt anything,” Bren protested, all innocence. All innocence and all eyes, Jetta saw, pleased Anton’s long lithe body and arresting face would easily pass inspection.

  “Looking good in your birthday suit,” Bren threw in her direction once they were all in the shelter of the courtyard.

  Jetta closed her eyes.

  “I take it these two...ladies...are your old flat-mates?” Anton asked. She grinned at his deliciously insulting hesitation.

  “The dark one is Hallie, and the redhead is Bren,” she managed over a giggle. “Yes—they’ve been my flat-mates for the last several years. They’re very old indeed.”

  “The terrible trio,” Hallie said.

  “But sadly no more,” Bren needled. “She’s left us to do her decorator thing and renovate her very own home.”

  “Stop teasing him,” Jetta protested. “It’s not really his fault. Oh—Anton Haviland, Bren McKay and Hallie Dragos,” she added, remembering the old-fashioned courtesy Gran and Grandpa had drilled into her.

  Anton pulled two more chairs up to the table and the girls sat. Hallie stole the olive Jetta had been pushing around her plate. Bren snagged Jetta’s champagne for a sip, and then glanced at the bottle. Anton took the hint, and went inside for more glasses.

  “You’re right—he’s plenty hot,” Bren said, mercifully almost in a whisper.

  “Have you come spying?”

  “Us?” Hallie asked.

  “Yes—you. I know what you’re like. Nosey as.”

  “Noooo—we just thought we’d bring you a nice housewarming present and have a wee look at your Gran’s place now it’s all yours,” Bren soothed.

  “Maybe not all mine. And where’s the present?” Jetta asked, eyeing their empty hands.

  “On your front step.”

  “Will it melt?”

  Hallie giggled. “It’s not chocolate.”

  “What’s not chocolate?” Anton asked as he returned. “Don’t you like chocolate?”

  “Love it.”

  He set the extra glasses down, and poured. Bren and Hallie raised their drinks in Jetta’s direction.

  “Happy birthday Jetta,” they chorused.

  “And may you be very happy with Anton,” Bren added with a small wicked smile.

  “We’re not setting up house together. We can’t stand each other...”

  “Aye, I can see that—sitting here having a private supper and drinking champers on such a nice evening.”

  “For her birthday,” Anton said. “No-one else seems to have arranged a celebration.”

  “Not easy with her Gran the way she was,” Hallie protested.

  “And we have arranged a wee treat—we’ve come to take her to the movies,” Bren said. “You could come too, Anton?”

  Hallie burst into renewed giggles.

  “What?” Jetta demanded. “You’re up to something. I know that laugh.”

  “No, it’s a genuine offer,” Bren said, feigning a hurt expression. “Girls’ Night Out. Special late double feature at the Embassy. ‘Dirty Dancing’ and ‘Sex in the City’—just the thing for a red-blooded man like Anton.”

  Jetta tried to hide her grin. “He’ll pass on that,” she said. “But is this for real? What time?”

  “Of course it’s for real,” Ben said. “We wouldn’t tempt you with the divine Patrick and then not deliver.”

  “Nine-thirty,” Hallie added, “so there’s time for a look at your house first. And we can stay in town for a drink afterward, yeah?”

  Jetta checked her watch. “Are we finished here?” she asked.

  Empty glasses thudded down onto the table in unison.

  “Okay,” she agreed. “House inspection time.”

  “I’ll come over in a minute and take some of that tape off,” Anton said, but the girls were already rising and chattering like a flock of colorful birds.

  He watched as they strolled off arm in arm—Bren in a small electric-blue and white dress, Hallie in a flirty gold skirt and violet blouse, and Jetta sandwiched between them in her slippery red top and snug fitting black leather trousers.

  Not quite sex in the city. But certainly sex in the suburbs.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “You see—we really did buy you a housewarming present,” Hallie teased, reaching down for a gift-wrapped box hidden behind the pot of petunias on the lowest step. “Just a little something to remind you of us when you’re gone.”

  “Whenever that might be,” Jetta grumped, levering the pot up so she could grab the keys just as Anton arrived.

  “I hope you don’t always leave them there,” he said, scowling.

  “Only when my trousers are so tight the bulge in the pocket would spoil the line,” she said, light-headed with champagne, and wanting to annoy him. “I hardly needed to bring my bag next door.”

  “Save me from stupid women,” he muttered.

  “Not stupid at all,” she snapped. “The keys were perfectly safe here. I was only over the fence.”

  “This time.”

  “We heard Bren and Hallie knocking, so we would have heard burglars.”

  Anton drew an annoyed breath, and she enjoying the way his nostrils flared and his chest firmed up inside the spice-brown shirt. Did his narrowed eyes spit blue sparks?

  “Yeah—burglars always knock like they’re trying to break the door down,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Don’t be so uptight—your precious house is perfectly safe.”

  “My house? It’s not the house I’m worried about. That’s the last thing on my mind.” He glared at her. “Have you been sleeping here and leaving
the keys outside?”

  “Och, he’s going all protective,” Bren cooed.

  “Of course I haven’t!”

  “Almost like a lovers’ tiff,” Hallie agreed.

  “Like hell,” Anton threw in her direction.

  Jetta dropped the keys, bent with difficulty in her tight trousers, picked them up again, and fumbled until she found the right one. The front door swung open with a horror-movie creak.

  “Welcome to my humble abode,” she said, sketching as much of a curtsey as she could. The gift-wrapped box jangled as she flung her arms wide. “What the...?” she exclaimed, giving it a firmer shake. This time it sounded very annoyed.

  “For your garden,” Bren said.

  “A dinner gong?”

  “Open it, stupid. Can we come inside?”

  Jetta switched on the light and they trooped in.

  “The main hallway,” she said in her best tour guide voice. “Walls will soon be white. Boards will soon be bare. This way to the sitting room.”

  Anton sauntered in behind them and continued through to the kitchen. The pink cupboard doors offended him too—no wonder Jetta hated them. But it was absolutely not worth it for the short term. Unless...

  He remembered the small cans of Burmese Bronze and Coconut Milk paint he’d bought for his sample boards. He had plenty left in each. If he combined them—even sloshed a bit of white in to bulk up the volume—they’d come somewhere close to the sisal color she’d described.

  That’d sweeten her up. Maybe make her easier to live with. Even though it wasn’t the hard glossy enamel paint he really needed, it would last long enough.

  He grinned to himself and turned away to his clean white walls just as the three girls came laughing out of the sitting room. They dived in through another doorway, and he tuned out their noise and began peeling the masking tape from the skirting boards. Nice edge. Good result. Even though it would be the most temporary of homes.

  He reviewed the apartment timeframe yet again as he worked. Tight as hell, but it should be okay if everything went to plan. Demolition of number seventeen would start first thing Tuesday, and they’d be laying out foundation boxing by the end of the week. They had to be.

  Time wasn’t the only tight thing. Finance was so tight it squeaked. He’d saved, begged, borrowed, and damn near stolen to get his project under way. One major hiccup and he’d be dead.

  He hoped he’d forecast every possible eventuality.

  Hoped he could get Jetta sorted, too. Why hadn’t Horrie been in touch with her? That really rankled, because the old boy had assured him everything was set up and ready to go.

  But maybe she’d be off to New York and out of his hair before they came to blows? Had they agreed on anything at all yet? He cast his mind back as he peeled off the last long ribbon of tape.

  Colors for the apartment exteriors, and that was it. He mashed his lips together. The next little while would be rocky.

  As he rolled all the tape strips up into a tacky ball, the girls reappeared, shrieking and exclaiming. How could three women make so much noise?

  “Totally retro,” Bren insisted. “Why would anyone not love it? Are you serious?”

  “Really not my sort of thing,” Jetta replied, and then called across to him, “Are you interested in it, Anton? Gran’s old bedroom suite?”

  “I’ve got storage, thanks. What’s it like?”

  “Shiny mahogany laminate. Fluted gold strips round the edges. Stepped-down drawer in the middle of the dressing table.”

  “And a line of little stars etched across the top of the mirror,” Hallie squealed. “So fifties.”

  Anton shuddered, thinking with appreciation of his own sleek Scandinavian pieces. “Sounds more like Bren than me.”

  “It’d never fit your big bed anyway. Jetta told us—ow!”

  “Told you what?”

  “Nothing!” Jetta exclaimed, glaring at Bren.

  “That you’ve a huge bed,” Hallie continued.

  “I did not,” Jetta said.

  Anton glanced across at her. Her face was on the way to becoming as red as her top.

  “I did not, she repeated. “I might have said something like ‘the headboard should fit Bren’s bed but it wouldn’t be any good with your kingsize one’.”

  “California-kingsize.”

  “Aye—you’re nice and tall,” Bren agreed.

  Jetta stayed silent, still pink, and looking curiously flustered.

  So she noticed my bed? Has she considered joining me in it? No way in hell.

  “Go for it, Bren,” he said. “The sooner it’s out of the way, the better. Tomorrow would be good.”

  “I’ll get Nick to bring his van around,” she said.

  “There’s none of Gran’s stuff left in the drawers. I’ve had a good clean out in her room,” Jetta muttered, still not looking him in the eye.

  “It’s supposed to be your birthday, not mine,” Bren grinned. “And speaking of birthdays, we’d better go now or we’ll only get pathetic movie seats.”

  “The housewarming present!” Hallie exclaimed. “Open it while we’re here and tell us if it’s okay.”

  Jetta set the box down on the kitchen bench and tore the ribbon and wrapping away. The gift clanged and jangled as she turned it over. Then she solved the mystery. “Wind-chimes!” she said with real pleasure, grabbing each girl in turn for a hug.

  “To hang in your garden. You often said you liked helping your Gran outside.”

  “It’s lovely,” Jetta said. “And yes, I did. Not that I’ll have a garden much longer if Demolition Man has his way.”

  “You’ll have a courtyard to hang it in—even better,” Anton insisted.

  She shot him a look cold enough to freeze hell over. He almost decided against painting the cupboard doors after such a glare. But it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Surely she’d be pleased when she discovered what he’d done for her, and a lot more amenable to the apartment project?

  “Mind if I stay on for a while?” he asked. “I’ll get some more taping done. Make a start on tomorrow’s work.”

  “Suit yourself. The house is half yours if I can believe you.” She handed him the keys and turned her back on him. “Just stay in your half, wherever that might be,” she called over her shoulder. “Put them under the pot when you’re done.”

  And she flounced out, leaving a trail of spicy perfume and the faint sexy aroma of leather.

  Anton stood there simmering at her snarky comments, wondering all over again if he’d bother wasting his time on the damn doors. But he couldn’t help enjoying the sexy wiggle of her butt as she sashayed along the hall after the others...and inhaling the fragrance that wafted in his direction until the front door closed.

  No doubt about it, she was one hot little package. With looks and spirit and attitude in just the right ratio to drive a man mad.

  Except... it wasn’t him she’d be driving mad.

  This was a business arrangement. Strictly a commercial proposition. Keeping well clear of her was the only way it would work.

  He balled up one fist and slapped it hard into his other palm several times. Restless. Needing to work off some energy.

  Painting cupboards wasn’t ideal. Taking a feisty and sweet-smelling woman to bed definitely was. And wouldn’t be happening tonight.

  Grimacing, he pulled open the nearest door to inspect the condition of the old paint. Not bad—a quick wipe over with heavy duty cleaner and he’d be away. Not even worth sanding the surfaces for such a short-term job.

  He frowned at the number of knobs and handles to remove, checked the screw heads, and dived home for his toolkit. Ten minutes later, he was back, wearing khaki shorts, battered sneakers and an old black T-shirt with the sleeves hacked out.

  Just as well the clients of Barker Haviland Mosely can’t see me looking like this.

  By 10.45 the higher doors were finished, and the lower ones clean and ready to go. He’d worked like fury, going at it like a ma
dman to get the job finished before Jetta returned.

  Because the summer night was warm, he’d closed all the windows to protect the wet paint from insects. Far too hot, he yanked the old tee off and threw it onto a chair. Sweat trickled down his long back, cooling deliciously as the air caressed his skin.

  He stood for a moment surveying the job so far and grabbed a beer from the fridge. After a few deep gulps, he wiped the back of a hand across his mouth. Satisfaction for a job well done flooded through him. Yeah—she’d owe him for this all right. Looking good.

  The next cupboard contained canisters…cornstarch, cocoa, brown sugar… He had no interest in them, but a small colorful box caught his eye. Birthday cake candles. Uh-huh...

  He remembered the two pieces of chocolate gateau he’d bought from the deli earlier that evening. The arrival of the gigglers meant he’d never produced them.

  He took another long swig of beer, and considered. Hmmm. Could be fun.

  He sauntered home, enjoying the fresh air for a few more minutes, and retrieved the cake. Then he set one slice on a pretty plate and studded the whole dozen candles on top. A rummage through the rest of the cupboards turned up a clear plastic box big enough to up-end over it for protection.

  He slid it to the very centre of the kitchen table, stole the ribbon off the wind-chime package, and curled it around artistically. Bingo. Instant birthday.

  He wolfed down the other slice, grinning to himself as he imagined the look on her face when she discovered what he’d been up to.

  The lower doors were easier. He checked his watch periodically, calculating that two movies and a drink afterward still gave him plenty of time. By half past midnight he’d finished, stowed his painting gear away, and only the knobs and handles remained to be re-attached. A job for the morning once the paint was harder.

  He stretched—weary now, long arms and back popping and pulling. And couldn’t resist wandering through the rest of the house while he had it to himself. How much would be worth salvaging when the time came to demolish it?

  Jetta sipped her dry white. Hallie and Bren were into expensive cocktails, but she’d been watching her money with New York in mind.