by Kris Pearson
“You’re a woman of many disguises. The dusty kid in the old hat, the party girl in the leather pants, and now the sophisticated city woman. Impressive.”
“You too.” She smiled in acknowledgement of his description, overwhelmed by his transformation, and stuck for appropriate words to compliment him in return.
He opened the car door for her and held out a hand for the flowers. Jetta lowered herself in, hoping his dazzling eyes weren’t watching her as closely as they seemed to be.
“A nice day to send your Gran off.”
She shifted her gaze fractionally—from his vivid blue eyes to a sky that seemed pale by comparison.
“Yes,” she agreed, feeling ridiculously tongue tied by this new and intimidating man. She reached for the bouquet.
The immaculate old Porsche growled out onto the road, past the flowerbeds of Ballentine Park and their deep green backdrop of camellia bushes. In minutes, they’d reached the business district. Anton turned into Brandon Street, and slid the car into the last visible space.
“Good start, anyway. I’ll see if they’re open.”
“I’m coming with you,” she insisted, scrambling out of the low car and laying her bouquet on the seat.
“You really don’t trust me, do you?” he asked across the roof of the car. “This is every bit as big a hassle for me as it is for you.”
He led her along the sidewalk and opened an old-fashioned glass door for her. The foyer they entered had an intricately tiled floor and marbled walls; Jetta gazed around with appreciation.
“These tessellated tiles must be at least eighty years old,” she said. “Much more my sort of thing than your modern boxes. How nice that it’s not been torn down to build something taller.”
“Fourth floor,” Anton said, not reacting to her comment, and indicating the elevator. They rode up in silence, only to find that while the other fourth floor tenant’s rooms blazed with lights, Winters and Watersons’ were in darkness.
Jetta stared in dismay at the sheet of letterhead paper taped inside the glass. Another week to wait. Another week before she could find out where she really stood. Anton was determined to move in tonight, and she couldn’t prevent him.
“So much for that idea,” he said. “At least you know where the place is now.”
She nodded numbly. “Next Monday then. Damn. Have you got any of their paperwork you can show me? I should have thought of that.”
“You’ll no doubt accuse me of forging it all.”
She compressed her lips. “Probably,” she agreed. The corners of her mouth tugged as she tried not to smile. “And now I’m far too early for the funeral.”
Anton pushed the elevator button again.
“I want to spend a few minutes at the office,” he said as they descended. “Come up and check out my view, and then I’ll drop you to the chapel.”
“You’ve time?” She hadn’t looked forward to clutching her big bouquet and trying to flag down a cab.
“Prospective apartment buyer arriving at ten thirty,” he said with one of his sudden devastating smiles. He looked as enthusiastic as a boy with a new puppy.
“Thanks,” she said. “Good luck with the sale, then. I suppose it’s in my best interests.”
And that’s really brought it home to me that he intends demolishing and rebuilding, whatever I say or do.
Anton ducked and dived through Wellington’s twisting one-way street system with ease, and turned into the parking entrance under the towering Majestic Centre.
“Here?” Her eyes widened with surprise.
“Need to look the part.”
The elevator shot them upwards. He unlocked an office with ‘Haviland Homes’ on the door and ushered her in. The harbor view stretched wall to wall.
She crossed to the window and peered down over the cityscape to the glittering water and the green hills beyond. “I’d never get any work done with a distraction like this.”
“I don’t work here—it’s strictly a sales base.”
When she turned to inspect the room, she found it sparsely furnished with his desk, another easy care Yucca plant in a black pot, and two low slung chairs for guests. Copies of the same plans and drawings from his bedroom adorned one of the walls.
“You need some mood boards,” she said. “To make your apartments look more like homes. Color schemed to show samples of possible furnishings.”
“Yeah—I’ve been a bit busy.”
“I could help. It’s exactly what I do. In return for my birthday dinner?”
Why am I offering to do this? Does a great body and a sharp suit and a smile like that really deserve such co-operation?
The answer seemed to be yes.
“So what are your invariables?” she asked, trying to sound businesslike.
“Black granite counter tops, white tiled bathrooms, fittings from the Habitas range, bronze colored exterior window and door sashes. You can pretty much go to town on the rest.” He turned aside to search for something in one of the desk drawers.
Jetta considered possibilities and decided she might call in at work once her funeral duties were over. She’d check out leftover samples and raid some of the brochures and magazines for pictures.
While Anton was absorbed in his search, she browsed from the top of his dark head all the way down his superbly covered body to his glossy black shoes. He was a honey in lots of ways, and they were both caught up in the same awkward situation. She hoped they could sort it out—soon, and with no huge loss on either side.
When would he mention his blonde girlfriend? Why was he keeping quiet about her?
Later that afternoon, she had her answer.
“Jetta Rivers—Claire Frobisher.”
Five feet ten of enviable slimness topped with far too much streaky blonde hair rose from one of Gran’s old dining chairs as though she owned the place.
Jetta clenched her teeth, smiled slightly, and extended a hand. The Claire person bent and gave her an unexpected kiss on the cheek instead.
“Ants says you’ve been to a funeral, you poor thing,” she gurgled. “Aren’t they just the pits?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Mmmm,” Jetta agreed, swinging around to face Anton again.
Before she could open her mouth, two men in jeans appeared from the sitting room and he added, “And Paul and Ben.”
She nodded in their direction, unable to find polite words for a moment. Obviously the four of them had been partying. Partying! Empty beer bottles and almost finished plates of snacks dotted the dining table. And they’d moved it from its usual place across to the window. That was the final straw.
“What an excellent idea to invite visitors,” she sniped. “Today of all days. When I’ve just lived through the worst time of my life.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. Furious with herself, and with all of them, she whirled aside and dashed to her room. Right before she slammed her door, she heard Anton yell, “They’ve been helping me shift my gear.”
She flung herself face down on her big new bed, buried her head under a pillow, and clamped her hands over her ears for good measure.
No—she did not want excuses. She did not want his friends wandering round. And she did not, not, not want Anton sleeping in her home, right through the wall. Probably with kissy Claire.
After a few minutes of useless self pity she pushed herself upright and looked down at her beautiful linen jacket.
Creased to extinction.
She grimaced at her stupidity, stood and removed it, and hung it in the wardrobe, hoping it would recover. Then she kicked off her tall shoes and stripped off her skirt and pantyhose, keeping a wary ear out for any approaching feet. Once she had jeans on like the rest of them, she felt marginally better. She flopped back onto the bed. The cooler air around her silky camisole felt wonderful.
Twenty minutes later, Anton knocked on her door, juggling a mug of coffee and a couple of cookies. No reply. Was she even there?
He leaned his elbo
w on the handle and pushed the door open. Jetta lay flat on her back in the middle of the bed, eyes closed.
“What?” she muttered sleepily.
“It’s me. Thought you might like a drink after your horrible day.” He sat down beside her, and she shot up into a sitting position—eyes wide, arms crossed over her breasts.
“No!” she gasped. The color drained from her face. She looked terror-stricken.
“Hey…hey…don’t panic. I said it was only me.”
Jetta clutched her arms more tightly around herself, and Anton mistook her reaction for modesty. “It’s okay—your red top last night displayed more than that.”
“No...” she wailed again. “Get out. Get right out.” She scrambled backward until she’d flattened herself against the wall, childlike and vulnerable. Her legs guarded her body like an extra barrier, and she pressed her death-white face down onto her knees so hard he saw her feathery black hair trembling against the bright pink wall.
Mystified, and hoping not to spook her any worse, he reached sideways in slow motion like a cat doing the ‘you cannot see me’ walk when it knows it’s in another’s territory. He set the coffee and cookies down on the bedside chest, then rose and backed from the room, pulling the door quietly closed behind him. What the hell had that been about? Had she still been half asleep and dreaming?
It took her almost half an hour to gain the courage to face him again. When she emerged from her room, it was with a T-shirt over her camisole, and deep dread in her heart.
He’ll think I’m nuts. Bonkers. Totally la-la. He’ll tell me to go to the doctor for tranquilizers. He’ll never look at me the same again.
She crept, barefoot, back into the kitchen where Anton had paperwork spread on the old table. Her coffee had been three-quarters cold by the time she’d relaxed enough to gulp it down, but she’d been grateful—especially after she’d been so spectacularly rude to his guests.
He glanced up when he heard the slight ‘chink’ of her mug as she set it down. “Better now?”
No drama, no intrusive questions, no condemnation. She could almost have hugged him for it.
“I feel so stupid. Of course they were here helping you. I saw all the stuff piled into the big bin outside.”
“Even the old carpet?” His grin shone wicked.
Her jaw dropped as she stared into the dining room...back down the hall. “Oh. My. God! How could I miss that? The timber floor is amazing.”
“You were pretty distracted. And you were upset about more than just finding people here.” It was a statement, not a question. His blue eyes were enquiring but still kind.
She sighed, unwilling to tell him most of it, but knowing he deserved at least something. Pulling out the farthest chair, she sat, twisting handfuls of her T-shirt between her fingers as she tried to work out what to say. “Um—this is so difficult.”
She stayed silent for a few more moments, attempting to marshal her thoughts into coherent order.
“Gran was not just my Gran,” she stammered. “So today was a doubly awful day for me. She was my Mom as well since I was fifteen.” She glanced over at him, wondering if that made sense. She worried at her bottom lip with her teeth and then continued. “My parents were killed in a road smash. They collided with a fully loaded cattle truck and trailer, and you don’t walk away from something that big.”
Her voice sounded far from steady, so she stopped again, hoping for more composure.
Anton reached across the table and covered her hand with his. There was comfort there much more than threat. She managed to keep her hand still, and he sat for at least thirty seconds before asking, “Were you with them?”
She shook her head. “They were coming to collect me from a friend’s birthday party. A sleepover. It was broad daylight—middle of the morning. I felt so guilty. They were in the car because of me, and I was the one who didn’t die.” She closed her eyes as the old desolation swamped her yet again.
She heard him mutter a soft curse. “You can’t think that way. I hope you don’t still feel like that?”
She shrugged, looked up at him, then away again. “Sometimes.”
He surprised her then by saying “I drive myself hard because I’m the only child my mother has. I want success for her more than for me. Equally stupid, isn’t it.”
Jetta looked up and found his blue eyes very watchful. “Paul and Ben aren’t your brothers then?
He shook his head. “Business partners. We’re Barker Haviland Mosely.” His beautiful mouth twisted into a lopsided grin. “The other way of looking at it,” he said, “is that I want to thumb my nose at my absent father, who wasn’t man enough to stick around. There’s a definite element of ‘stuff you Dad, I don’t need you’ in everything I’ve ever tried to do.”
His hand still sat warmly over hers, and to her surprise, Jetta turned her own over and gave his a squeeze.
“I can understand that,” she said, releasing it again.
Hoping she’d offered him enough by way of apology she sprang to her feet. “Hey—I did you some mood boards. I left them in the hall when I came home and heard voices.”
She trotted down the hallway to retrieve the big flat package.
“Barker Haviland Mosely,” she murmured as she padded back. “I should have twigged. You won a ‘House of the Year’ design this time around.”
“Best under $750,000. Not the Supreme Award, though.” Anton started to shuffle his paperwork into a pile.
“Next time.” She ripped at the paper she’d taped around the boards and set the pile down. Anton had cleared away the plates and bottles from the dining table. It now sat in its rightful place. Gran’s sideboard had been relocated to the end wall, under a vivid orange and red abstract she’d never seen before.
She swung around to inspect the sitting room. No more fusty velvet or tizzy lamps! Anton’s long grey suede sofa ranged along one pristine white wall. The giant-pile rug softened the centre of the room. His TV still appeared huge, but he’d arranged several of the old, randomly spaced hall watercolors into tight groups either side of it. The two spiky yuccas stood guard by the glass doors.
“Amazing,” she said. “Where did you get the extra chairs?”
“From your junk room. I had a scavenge under some old loose covers and that’s what was hidden.”
Jetta shook her head in admiration. Plain beige linen. Gran had covered it up with Sanderson roses many years ago.
“Pretty slick. You could have done your own boards.”
“No—these are great,” he said, spreading hers out. “Although I didn’t picture the apartments ever looking like this.” He indicated the option with French blue walls, navy carpet, and floral tapestry brocade with a mix-and-match stripe and check.
“And some nice, wealthy, nearly retired lady probably wouldn’t consider this,” Jetta said, pointing at the white walled, charcoal tiled version with black and white geometric fabric options. “I’ve also done you a ‘naturals’ scheme—which I can tell you right now is what most people will want.”
Anton ran a long finger over the small square of nubby cream carpet and grinned.
“And this one, which is still very neutral but has colored accents.” She slid it onto the top of the stack, watching his eyes as they ran over the magazine clippings of bright cushions, flowers, ceramics, a vibrant painting. “Same exactly—apart from the accessories.”
He sent her one of his bone melting smiles. “You’re good, but you need to sign them. If you’re back from New York in time the work’s yours.”
“Thank you cousin,” she said without thinking.
Anton disappeared soon afterward, looking a lot tidier, and calling over his shoulder, “Expect me when you see me.” Jetta presumed he was seeing Claire. She was welcome to him.
Once he’d gone, she checked the rest of the house.
The bathroom had gained an electric toothbrush, a second tube of toothpaste, and extra towels. She flinched at the evidence of masculine oc
cupation. Panic waves began to lap around her ankles.
The spare room was wonderfully clear. Only his drawing board and a stack of plastic chairs lurked there.
The front bedroom had that big, big bed, and the sleek desk and chests she’d seen at the other house. He’d pulled the old brown roller blinds halfway down against the setting sun, making the atmosphere mysterious and sexy.
She sniffed. His lemony cologne hung in the air, bringing back memories of Saturday, and his arm against hers as she told him how nasty his apartments were.
The panic waves lapped higher.
She spied his toolbox in the corner and thought of the big new latch she’d bought. She simply had to have that control. There was no way she’d be able to sleep, knowing he could walk right into her room like he had earlier...like Uncle Graham had on the evenings her parents went out, when they’d trusted him to look after her.
She trembled, calling herself a wuss, a scaredy-cat, a nutcase.
But surely knowing she was unreachable would help her relax?
She picked up the toolbox and carried it back to her room. Half an hour later, she nodded with satisfaction. The latch was ugly, slightly crooked, and stiff to work, but it was on.
Then she noticed the little TV on the corner stand had been replaced by Gran’s bigger sitting room set. Anton had been in here, messing with her stuff, invading her privacy! The shivers of shock and consternation started all over again. How dare he do that without asking?
She stared across at the ugly latch again, and waited until calmness stole over her and her heart rate decreased.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Against all expectations, she slept deeply on Monday night—exhausted from the terrible day, and grief and worry and trepidation. She didn’t hear Anton come back. But she certainly heard the demolition crew when they arrived at number seventeen early next morning.
A noisy truck, men’s loud voices far too close, and metallic clanking and thumping yanked her out of her peaceful sleep before her alarm sounded. She shot from the bed, parted the curtains, and glared across at them.
