by Kris Pearson
But from the moment he’d seen her dusty tear streaked face under that terrible hat, he’d wanted to...protect her? He thought about that as he screamed to a halt at a red light. Such a compact ball of pride and anger and challenge. The challenge was the part he enjoyed most. Claire might look like a catwalk model but her personality was bland as blancmange.
Jetta spat sparks. Interesting sparks. She had a sharp brain, plenty of ambition, and a feisty personality that annoyed the hell out of him.
But—territorial and tetchy as she was—there was vulnerability there too. Now he knew why, and it ripped him apart.
She’d been nine. Nine. A little doll, he’d bet. All big eyes and dark hair and mischief.
He’d wager the uncle hadn’t gone to Canada. It would have been straight to jail. But okay, her family had done a good job convincing her he was well out of the way, and plainly she hadn’t wanted to question it.
Canada it would stay.
A few minutes later, he angled in to his car park. He’d arrived early for his interested apartment buyer but there was something he wanted to do, well away from Jetta’s sharp eyes.
He unlocked the office, set his laptop down, and opened it. Googled ‘Incest in New Zealand’, and found himself on the Interpol site.
Illegal between parent and child. Illegal between brother and sister, whether of the whole blood or the half blood.
He raised his eyebrows at the old-fashioned phrasing.
Illegal between grandparent and grandchild.
Well, the first and last were off the menu. Was there any possibility he could be Jetta’s half-brother? He didn’t see how. Jetta was younger by six years, and he’d have noticed if his mother had suddenly sprung a baby sister on him.
Which left his unknown father.
Surely not Jetta’s father? The thought flashed into his brain like white lightning.
Bile rushed up in his throat—hot and acid and disgusting. He clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the nausea. Sat there with his eyes screwed shut until he could consider the possibility with a calmer mind. He simply couldn’t be her brother...
Jetta’s Dad could have fathered a son years before he married her mother.
He mulled over that nasty possibility for a while longer.
But that would make me Anton Rivers and not Anton Haviland.
Relief washed over him in huge swamping waves.
No—somewhere there’d once been a man named Arthur John Haviland who’d left Isobel alone and pregnant, and there was no chance he’d fathered Jetta as well. He began to feel better.
Good old Wikipedia had the extra information he needed.
Not banned between cousins.
He and Jetta were in the clear—legally at least.
CHAPTER TEN
“Do you want a coffee before you start?” she asked, embarrassed by her unlovely, soot streaked appearance.
“Had one with my clients, thanks. Your mood boards got plenty of attention.”
“And I bet it’s the ‘naturals’ scheme the wife liked,” she said. “Was there a wife?”
“Yup—well preserved, and with a heap of jewelry.”
“A good prospect then?”
Why did it even matter to her? As soon as she could, she’d be off to New York, leaving him to his wheeling and dealing. By the time she returned, her house would be dust, unless she heard good news from the lawyer on Monday.
Anton shot her an amused glance. “Nothing’s certain until the ink’s dry and the deposit’s safely in the bank.”
“Have you had to borrow to fund the project? Do you mind me asking?”
“We’re talking millions here, babes. I don’t have enough millions yet. I’m so far in debt I’m in danger.” He made a sudden throat slitting motion with his hand. “I need to get a couple more apartments sold and then I can start breathing easier.”
She gazed at him as he lounged against the kitchen doorframe. Tall, dark and relaxed. No real sign of the worry that had to be eating at him. Even the throat slitting gesture had been accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a dazzling smile. “Go and get changed,” she said. “It’s terrible in there. I’m throwing stuff out the window hole.”
He was back in a couple of minutes, mostly naked. The ache started low in her belly again... the deep, hot, intense female awareness that appeared out of nowhere when he was too close, or too nice to her, or had too much skin on display.
Faded shorts hung across his hipbones, looking as though a tug would easily dislodge them. She was almost willing to tug. But there was plenty else of him to admire first.
“Can I just look at you for a moment?” she stammered. “To get used to you? Before we...?” She broke off in embarrassment.
“Before we get filthy together?”
Yes please, her newly awakening body agreed.
She caught the teasing twinkle in his eyes.
“Uh, no, but you’ll end up as messy as me, and this seems a good time to start getting used to you.”
“Broad daylight? No bed?”
The ache deepened.
“Something like that. Please?”
He shrugged, apparently granting permission, and stood waiting for her inspection.
She took a final gulp of her coffee, put the mug down, and walked across to where he stood.
She laid one hand on his chest, and his muscles tensed with surprise.
“I didn’t say you could touch.”
“I didn’t say you could touch last night, either, but you did.”
“Here?” he asked, cupping his hand to the shape of her breast but not quite making contact.
She nodded, remembering how he’d held her in the dark. Did he plan to do it again? No, she found to her disappointment, because he dropped his hand to his side, although there did seem to be a faint smile playing about his lips.
She stroked his chest...ran a finger across his nipple...then down over his abs. They tightened at her touch. She made a small fist and pushed. His flesh barely gave way.
“Hmph!” she said, impressed.
When she glanced up to gauge his reaction, he’d closed his eyes. She wanted to shut her own—to cancel her sight so her senses of touch and taste and smell could have full rein. She moved closer while he couldn’t see her. Laid her face against his chest. He jumped.
She breathed him in. He smelled even better than he had when she’d found him asleep in the front bedroom. Soap and cologne, yes—but over them she could detect crisp cotton shirt, warm skin, man.
She licked. He gave a small grunt of surprise.
He tasted salty.
She stepped back and looked her fill. Over a lean golden torso to his strong chest and shoulders... higher to his long, lively face and those brilliant eyes, now watching her from under dark brows.
“You really did hurt yourself rescuing me,” she said, touching the dressing on his shoulder. A spectacular bruise shadowed out around it. She trailed her fingers downward and compared the smooth strength of his biceps with his sinewy forearm.
The low ache in her belly intensified. She wanted those long arms wrapped around her again, holding her tight. Not now, but soon. In the dark.
She released his hand, flicked her eyes up to his face again, and made a ‘turn around’ gesture.
Anton smiled and obeyed.
Jetta drew a deep, deep breath. What was it about him that made her willing to trust him? Even though he’d flipped her life on its head and dynamited her plans, it had been Anton who she’d finally confessed her fears and inadequacies to... Anton who had somehow broken through the hard shell she’d built around herself for more than half her lifetime.
“You’re scary,” she murmured, reaching up to his neck and smoothing her hand all the way down the groove of his spine until she hit the band of his shorts. “You’re beautiful, but you’re so much bigger than me. So much stronger. I’m not quite as frightened of you as I was, but you could really hurt me.”
“I promise not t
o hurt,” he said, turning back to her with a concerned expression.
Jetta relaxed a fraction at his reassurance.
Then he reached out with both big hands and tilted her face up to his. “There’ll be nothing but pleasure,” he whispered. His lips brushed over hers. Any hint of relaxation fled.
Anton heaved a sigh of relief. They were done. Jetta’s room had now been stripped of everything burned, melted or singed. They were both black with soot, and slick with sweat.
“Call it quits now, and I’ll get one of the men to cover the window over,” he suggested, planting a big hand on the back of her neck and ruffling her damp hair.
He’d been touching her whenever he could—a stroke, a kiss if he found a piece of clean flesh, a pat on her peachy butt, a brief hug. Getting her used to him. It was the strangest seduction he’d ever attempted—she so scared but nervously eager, he still doubtful he was the answer she required, and determined to make it a one-time-only thing.
She turned and inspected the room, face smudged and smeared with cinders.
“All my memories, gone in minutes,” she said, sorrow making her pretty mouth droop.
“You’ll make new ones. Starting with tonight.”
Her lips parted in what he hoped was anticipation.
“Losing so many photos is the worst.”
“Have a search through the stuff I stowed out in the garage. There might be some of your grandmother’s old albums there.”
She brightened at that. Her dark eyes flashed in his direction, and pleasure at her reaction raced through him. Sometimes it took so little to make her smile. And sometimes, he reminded himself grimly, it took quite a lot.
“I planned to have a big clothes cleanout when I moved into the main bedroom,” she said, peering into what remained in the wardrobe. “Before I went to New York. This was kind of more than I intended getting rid of though.”
He moved across to the doorway and asked, “How much do you think you can save? If you sort them out, I’ll drive you to a drycleaner. Maybe you’ll need to buy a few things to tide you over the next day or two? And something for tonight of course.”
“Tonight?”
He enjoyed her startled expression. “Nice dinner in a café by the harbor. Watch the lights and the water. Watch each other?”
“But I thought...”
“Yes, I know you did. We’ll get around to that.”
Under all the smears and smudges, she blushed. He grinned as the rosy flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks.
“Have a shower,” he said. “I’ll follow on. Unless you want company in there?”
“Have a shower yourself,” she retorted. “I’ll have a sort through the wardrobe while you do that.”
And she did. But she’d finished in minutes.
Anything washable she carried out to the laundry. Everything wrecked went straight out the window. She bundled up the rest of her clothes in an old sheet to take to the drycleaner.
She left the mystery suitcase in the denuded wardrobe, remembering the two new matched bags she’d bought for her trip, now melted and collapsed, and somewhere out in the heap on the lawn. They’d have to be replaced in the next few days. Although drawers had been shut and the wardrobe door closed, the reek of smoke remained a sickening reminder of her night of terror.
But it hadn’t all been terror. Once Anton had convinced her she was safe with him, she’d found courage from heaven knew where. Unburdened herself as she’d never been able to before. Somehow, despite his size and strength and absolute insistence she stayed in his bed, she’d trusted him.
She hesitated for a moment outside the bathroom. The water ran full tilt. He’d be under the shower. He’d plainly not locked the door. Not even entirely closed it. He’d left it open just a tiny tempting crack.
She put her eye to the gap. Not wide enough. She pushed with extreme caution.
Wildfire heat rushed through her. He’d joked about showering together. Serve him right if she called his bluff! Not that she had any intention of getting naked herself, but maybe she could catch just a glimpse of him? Without him knowing of course.
She edged the squeaky door open a fraction further. The steamy room had seen better days. Somewhere in its long life, Gran and Grandpa had had a shower head installed at the end of the big old bath. A glass screen extended part way along to prevent the water from cascading out over the floor. Behind the rivulets of water streaming down the glass Anton stood—head thrown back under the pounding spray, eyes closed, oblivious to her inspection.
She moved the door open just a little wider. Enough so both eyes could admire him, but to her frustration, she still couldn’t see him in any detail; the splatter of water on the glass below shoulder height blurred his silhouette.
Dared she go further in? Her sensible brain screamed ‘no’, but some very un-sensible parts egged her on, urging her to creep just far enough to see more of the intoxicating body she’d admired before they started clearing the burned belongings out of her room.
His eyes remained closed. Good—the noise of the water had hidden the squeak of the door. She took one cautious step. Two.
Her breath caught, and the delicious pulses between her thighs became stronger and faster as she inspected the whole back view of him from his dark wet hair to his size eleven feet. Bubbles slid down his flanks in caressing cascades. And yes, his butt was as cute as she’d imagined the day she mentally removed his jeans while he’d polished his car.
She almost moaned aloud.
Then he turned. A dark blur at the top of his thighs became momentarily visible. She fixed her eyes on it with such dread and curiosity she didn’t notice the long brown arm snaking out from behind the glass until it grabbed her.
“Gotcha,” he said.
She screamed with fright and guilt, and squeezed her eyes tightly closed. Oh, this couldn’t be for real! Why had she been so stupid?
He chuckled and his big wet hand drew her closer. She stumbled against the side of the bath, knowing it was futile to try fighting him off.
“Dirty girl,” he teased.
“No...”
“Yes. Very dirty. She needs a thorough wash.”
He sounded much more amused than offended, and when her eyes shot open she found she was now far too close to him to see anything untoward.
Disturbingly close.
“Kick your sneakers off.”
“No!” she protested, followed by “Oh!” as he cupped her butt in his big hands, and hoisted her up against him.
“Filthy,” he murmured. “Disgusting. So dirty she needs lots of nice soapsuds all over her.”
He lifted her higher. Her legs instinctively locked around his waist and her arms clamped about his neck. Her bare legs in their short shorts slid deliciously against his smooth torso, but she was frantic to distance herself from the dark blur that must surely be only a fraction below.
“I’ve got you safe—stop fighting me.”
Her heart beat a frantic tattoo against her ribs. If only, if only…
“So you want company in the shower after all?” he teased, moving half a step toward the pounding water. He seemed a long way from embarrassed.
She groaned and wriggled as the jets started to hit her and sooty streaks ran from her clothes all over his clean skin. “I’m making you dirty again. Let me go.”
“Need to clean you up too. You do me; I’ll do you.”
“I can’t...I can’t...” she wailed from her precarious position against his chest.
“You could shampoo my hair at least?”
“No I couldn’t.”
“Yes you could. Shampoo’s right there.” He nodded across at the corner shelf.
“No...” she moaned, gazing down into his wicked blue eyes.
“Well, I can’t do it. I’ve already got my hands full.” He gave her butt a small squeeze, and a distracting surge of slippery warmth flickered between her thighs. His slow smile made her feel bathed in sunshine, caressed by
silk, touched by everything sensuous and wonderful. Especially there.
“Or you could kiss me?” he whispered.
Had she really heard that over the hissing water? Maybe she’d imagined it?
His mouth was only inches from hers. So tempting.
“No I couldn’t,” she murmured, leaning forward out of the water. She stroked her fingers down his jaw line. His magnetism drew her inevitably nearer. The warm wet sensation in her panties intensified.
She stared down at the tiny water droplets caught in his dark lashes...every miniature jewel sparkling and twinkling in the overhead light.
She sampled the scratch and scrape of his newly shaved whiskers with her questing hands.
Smelled the soap mingling with fire-scent as her mouth drew closer and closer to his.
Finally, she lowered her face the last tiny distance with a choking cry of need and desire—lips parted to claim his, crushing down with desperation as flames danced through her, and untold years of terror and frustration started releasing their strangling hold.
She wanted. She wanted. She wanted.
She writhed against him. The skin-to-skin ratio shot to new and dizzying heights.
“God!” she gasped between juicy kisses. “Anton...”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“So there we were in the shower,” she said, having called in to her old flat after Hallie and Bren returned from work. “Him starkers, me wearing not much, and stinking like a bonfire.”
“You’re very perky for someone who nearly died,” Bren observed.
“Showering with a hunk like Anton would perk me up for sure,” Hallie claimed.
Jetta smiled, happy to let them think that she and Anton were an item, even if it wasn’t quite true—yet. Happy to be alive was closer to the mark.
He’d finally set her down, and she’d turned away in confusion while he rinsed himself off, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around his hips. He’d left her pierced by aching lust and acute embarrassment in more-or-less equal measures, assuring her he’d be next door at number seventeen for a while.
