He went back to work, this time on his computer. The creation of a character was only the first step in the long process of producing a new game.
CHAPTER NINE
SHELLEY HAD SPENT both Saturday and Sunday mornings on horseback—the sport she’d loved since she’d been two years old and first begged to be lifted up onto a pony. Horticulture was both her interest and the way she earned her living. Riding a horse was pure pleasure—physical, emotional and spiritual.
A rented horse at a commercial stable could not compare to the joy of riding her own horse. But she was lucky enough to live not too far from Centennial Park, the inner eastern suburbs park that stretched out over four hundred and fifty acres and had extensive horse-riding facilities.
She had a deal with the owner of a beautiful thoroughbred chestnut gelding named Flynn that she rode every weekend. Flynn was loved by his owner, who couldn’t exercise him as much as the horse needed, so it worked out well for both of them.
One day she would have that countryside cottage with enough land for a horse. And a dog. In the meantime she made the best of riding Flynn.
She didn’t know when she’d get to ride him again on a Saturday now she had committed to working in lieu of paying rent. Most likely she’d saddle up very early before she started work.
It was worth adjusting her working hours to live in this apartment, she thought, looking around her with intense satisfaction. Yesterday she’d finished unpacking her stuff. She had her priorities right—she’d first unpacked the kitchen things. Not that she’d really needed to—the apartment kitchen was completely equipped with every tool and gadget she’d ever need, and more. This afternoon she’d decided to christen the top-of-the-line oven and cooktop.
One of the other things she loved to do in her own time was to bake. On the way back from Centennial Park she’d gone shopping and stocked up on everything she’d needed for a bake-fest.
The oven timer went off and she pulled out the two pies she had baked from scratch. There was something particularly satisfying about making pastry—she got a kick from kneading, crimping edges and forming pastry leaves to put on top. She set the pies to cool on a rack and stood for a long moment critically examining them.
Should she or shouldn’t she? She had baked the extra pie with Declan in mind. One for him, the other to share with Lynne and Keith. But she’d assured him she would respect his privacy. Would he consider a text to ask him could she deliver a ‘thank you’ pie a breach of her promise?
While the pies were cooling she showered and washed her hair to get out the smell of horse—she’d groomed Flynn after their ride. She adored the earthy warm smell of the big animals she loved. She suspected Declan might be rather more fastidious.
Once dressed in pink jeans and a pale pink shirt with a cream sweater slung around her shoulders—all gifts from Lynne, who was always trying to get her to dress in a more feminine manner—she texted Declan.
Can I see you?
His reply took a few minutes to come back.
Sure—come to the back door.
She wrapped the pie with its golden, buttery pastry crust in one of the beautiful French tea towels she’d found in a kitchen drawer.
It was only when she stood at his back door waiting for Declan to open it that she seriously began to question the sanity of baking a pie for her boss.
* * *
Declan was surprised to hear from Shelley so late on Sunday afternoon. He was not long awake, having had to catch up on some sleep after the Estella marathon. He’d only just started his workout in the basement gym and normally wouldn’t tolerate interruption.
He threw on a sweatshirt over his bare chest. Perhaps it was an emergency in the apartment that needed his attention, he told himself as justification for breaking his no-interruptions rule. As an excuse for the brightening of his spirits when he’d seen her name flash up on his smartphone.
He was even more surprised to see her at his door bearing the most amazing home-made pie. Apple, he guessed, if the enticing aroma was anything to go by.
She held it out to him on both hands like an offering.
‘I wanted to thank you for letting me live in the apartment it’s fabulous and I can’t believe my luck to be living there,’ she blurted out.
‘You don’t have to cook for me,’ he said and immediately regretted it when her face fell.
‘I wondered if it was...appropriate,’ she said, biting her lower lip. ‘You mentioned you liked mulberries. Mulberries aren’t in season so I couldn’t get you mulberries. I’m hoping apple and raspberry might be acceptable. I had to use frozen raspberries because they’re not in season either but they’re very good and—’
‘Shelley,’ he said. ‘Stop. I’m delighted you made me a pie. It was just...unexpected.’ He took it from her hands. It was warm to the touch. ‘Thank you.’
‘Just out of the oven,’ she said. ‘An oven that’s a very good one, by the way.’
‘Come in,’ he said.
‘Oh, no, I shouldn’t, I—’
‘Please,’ he said. The realisation he had no one to share the creation of Princess Estella with had made him feel...lonely.
He was also surprised to see Shelley all dressed in pink. Pretty, girly pink. She even wore jewellery, a chain holding a silver horseshoe that rested in the dip of her cleavage. Lucky horseshoe. He didn’t know why he had assumed she would always dress in mannish clothes. Perhaps he’d forced himself to think too much about Shelley as warrior instead of facing up to his attraction to Shelley as woman.
‘Okay,’ she said and followed him inside.
During the major renovation of the house the back had been opened up and a family room and what the architect had insisted on calling a ‘dream kitchen’ had been installed.
‘Wow,’ she said as she unashamedly looked around her. ‘This is an amazing space.’
‘It’s hardly used,’ he said.
‘Shame,’ she said. ‘That’s truly a dream kitchen for someone who enjoys cooking.’
So the architect had got that one right.
Most of the house wasn’t used and was quiet and still with air unbreathed. He couldn’t bear to go into the rooms he’d shared with Lisa. They’d been closed off for two years. He’d never gone into the nursery they’d prepared with such hope. But he wouldn’t let anyone clear it. His life in this house was confined to his top-floor workspace, the turret room and the gym with occasional forays into this kitchen.
And now Shelley had brought a shaft of her particular brand of sunshine with her into this too large, too empty, too sad house.
He carried the pie over to the marble countertop and put it down.
‘I’m going to have a piece right now while it’s warm,’ he said. ‘You?’
She shook her head. ‘I baked another one to share with my sister and her fiancé. I’m having dinner with them tonight.’
Any thought of asking her to join him for dinner—to be delivered from a favourite restaurant he hadn’t actually set foot in for two years—was immediately quashed. It was a stupid idea anyway. He reminded himself it was more important than ever to establish boundaries between them now she was living on site, so to speak.
He took out a plate, a knife to cut the pie and a fork with which to eat it, and served himself an enormous slice. Then pulled up a stool at the breakfast bar. Shelley took a seat two stools away.
‘So I get to eat this pie all by myself,’ he said, circling the plate with his arms in exaggerated possessiveness.
‘You could put half in the freezer,’ said ever-practical Shelley.
‘Believe me, there won’t be half left to freeze,’ he said.
He bit into his first mouthful, savoured the taste. ‘Best pie I ever had,’ he said with only mild exaggeration.
She laughed. ‘I don’t believe that for a minute.’
‘Seriously, it’s delicious.’
‘My grandma’s recipe,’ she said. ‘Trouble with learning to cook from yo
ur grandmother is I tend to specialise in old-fashioned treats.’
‘This is a treat, all right,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long time since someone baked for me.’
She looked around the room. ‘So who uses this kitchen?’
‘I do. But only for the most basic meals. I’m useless at anything more complex.’ Declan had never needed to learn to cook. He’d moved out of home at age eighteen, already wealthy enough to eat out or hire caterers whenever he wanted.
Shelley leaned her elbows on the countertop. ‘Was Lisa a good cook?’
He was so shocked to hear her mention Lisa’s name he nearly choked on his pie. But why shouldn’t she? It was a perfectly reasonable question. Shelley didn’t know of his guilt over the deaths of his wife and daughter and his determination to punish himself for their loss.
‘She...she did her best—but we used to laugh at the results more often than not. We ate out a lot. I think she was hoping this kitchen would transform her into a culinary wizard. She used to talk about doing classes but...but she never did.’
‘She... Lisa...she sounds lovely.’ He could tell Shelley was choosing her words carefully.
‘She was. You...you would have liked her and she...she would have liked you.’
He realised it was true. The two women were physically complete opposites; Lisa had been tiny and dark-haired. But there was a common core of...he hesitated to use the bland word ‘niceness’ but it went some way to articulating what he found almost impossible to articulate.
‘I... I’m glad,’ Shelley said. He could see sympathy in her eyes. But not pity. He wouldn’t tolerate pity.
Even two years later he still found it difficult to talk about Lisa. It was as if his heart had been torn out of him when she’d died.
But if he were going to talk to anyone it would be Shelley. There was something trustworthy and non-judgemental about her that made him believe he could let his guard down around her. If only in increments.
‘Lisa was...vivacious. That was the word people used about her. When I was young I was a quiet kind of guy, awkward around girls. Females ran a mile from me when they learned what a geek I was.’
‘I don’t believe that for a minute,’ Shelley said with an upward tilt to her lovely mouth. ‘You’re a very good-looking guy. I imagine you would have been beating girls off with a stick.’ Was that acknowledgement of a fact or admiration? Whatever it was he liked the feeling her words gave him.
‘Not so,’ he said, with a self-deprecating shrug. ‘I probably spent way too long in front of a screen.’
‘But Lisa saw something in you?’
‘Lisa grew up with brothers, knew how to handle boys. She took me out of myself. I was an only child of parents too busy to take much notice of me.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she murmured.
‘They’d decided not to have children. I came as a shock to them.’ He tried to make a joke of it but his bitterness filtered through. ‘I don’t know how many times I heard the words “Declan was our little accident” when I was growing up.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Surely they said it with fondness,’ she said.
‘Perhaps. I didn’t see much of my parents anyway. My mother was too busy defending criminals or doing pro bono work for underprivileged people to realise there might be someone at home who needed her time too. Thankfully she shunted me off to her mother for the school vacations.’
‘The one with the mulberry tree?’
He nodded. ‘The very one. She was an artist and took great delight in passing on her skills to me—to defy my parents, I sometimes think.’
‘And your father?’
‘Let’s just say “typical absentee parent” and be done with it.’
‘I... I feel sad for the little boy you were,’ she said.
‘Don’t be. I put that behind me long ago. Who knows, if I’d grown up in a happy household with a boatload of siblings I mightn’t have got where I did so fast.’
‘That’s a thought,’ she said, but didn’t sound convinced.
‘At least they had the sense to hire a wonderful nanny for me. She more than made up for it.’
Until he’d turned twelve and they’d terminated Jeannie’s employment, citing that a big boy like him didn’t need to be looked after any more. Jeannie had never given up on him, though. She’d stayed an important part of his life.
‘Jeannie was going to live in the apartment to...to help you with...?’
He had to change the subject. ‘Yes,’ he said abruptly. ‘What about you? Sounds like your childhood might have been less than ideal.’
‘It was very ideal until my father decided he preferred another family to us,’ she said. It gutted him to see her face tighten with remembered distress.
‘You and your sister?’
She nodded. ‘And my mum—none of us saw it coming. He met a younger woman with a little boy. She got her clutches into him and that was the end of it. For us anyway.’
‘So why did you have to leave your home?’
‘He’s a real-estate agent. He said our little farm needed to be sold. Then he pulled some tricky deal and moved right back in with her.’
Declan could think of a few words he’d like to use to describe her father but held his tongue. ‘That’s terrible.’
‘He tried to make it up to Lynne and me. Wanted to keep seeing us. I was allowed to keep my pony, Toby, there. He said it was a good way to make me visit.’
By the tight set of her face Declan doubted the tale would have a happy ending. ‘Makes sense,’ he said.
‘Until the day I got there to find she’d sold my beautiful Toby. And my father had done nothing to stop her.’
This time Declan did let loose with a string of curse words. ‘That’s cruelty. How old were you?’
‘I’d just turned fourteen. It’s a long time ago but I still remember how I felt.’
‘Did you get your horse back?’
‘We tracked down the new owner. But...but...’ Tears welled in her beautiful eyes. ‘He’d panicked when they were off-loading him from the horse trailer at the other end. My darling boy must have known what was happening to him wasn’t right. Apparently he reared and thrashed around and...and broke his leg.’ Her voice became almost unintelligible as she fought off tears. ‘It wasn’t the new owner’s fault. They didn’t know Toby was...was stolen. But he...he had to be put down.’
‘And what about your father?’
‘He made me hate him,’ she said simply. ‘And it never really went away.’
Something deep and long unused inside Declan had turned upside down in the face of her grief. To comfort her became more important than the inhibitions he had imposed upon himself.
He reached out and clasped her hand in his. Her hand was slender and warm but he felt calluses on her palm and fingers. Warrior calluses.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Not just about your horse but about your father too.’ He suspected the pain of losing her horse was inextricably tied up with her father’s betrayal.
She returned the pressure on his hand, not knowing what a monumental gesture it was for him to reach out to her. For a very long moment his eyes met with hers in a silent connection that shook him. What he felt for her in this moment went way beyond physical attraction.
In the quiet of his kitchen, with the ticking of the clock and the occasional whirring of the fridge the only noise, this one room of many in the vast emptiness of his house suddenly seemed welcoming. Because she was there.
‘I’m sorry to lose the plot like that,’ she said. ‘I know that my loss is nothing—absolutely nothing—compared with your loss. I know he was only an animal but—’ She sniffed back the tears that obviously still threatened.
‘But you loved him.’
There’d been no pets in his childhood household, despite his constant clamouring for a dog. Then Lisa had been allergic to pet hair. One day he might get a dog. It was a new thought and one immediately rejected. He did not want
to take the risk of loving anything, anyone again.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I adored Toby. There’s an incredible bond between horse and rider, you know. It’s not quite the same as loving a cat or a dog. Two become one, horse and human, when you ride. There’s a kind of mutual responsibility. It’s very special.’
‘Do you still ride?’ He couldn’t admit how he had observed her heading out of the house dressed in her breeches and boots.
‘Fortunately Centennial Park is so close by I can ride each weekend. Riding a hired horse is nothing like riding your own but I’m fortunate enough to ride the same lovely big boy every week. His owner is so grateful to have someone competent to exercise him and groom him, she only charges me a pittance.’
‘Sounds like a deal,’ he said.
‘It’s another reason I really wanted to stay in this area rather than moving out further where rents are cheaper. Again, thank you for the apartment. I love it.’
‘Thanking me with a pie was a great idea,’ he said.
‘I make a mean chocolate-fudge cake too,’ she said. ‘Unless you’d prefer something more savoury.’
‘Cake is good,’ he said. The strict exercise regime he followed let him eat whatever he wanted.
He realised he was still holding her hand—and he didn’t want to let it go. She seemed in no rush to relinquish his grip either.
‘Tell me the type of treats you like so I can keep you in mind when I’m baking,’ she said with her generous smile, leaning closer, so close he breathed in her sweet, flowery scent. ‘If it isn’t in my repertoire, I’ll find a recipe.’
It was a thoughtful offer. But right now there was only one treat that was tempting him. Before he could rustle up a reason why he shouldn’t, he leaned across and kissed her. Her lush, lovely mouth was soft and full under his.
She stilled at first, startled, then relaxed against him, her lips parting for his with a soft murmur as he traced their warm softness with his tongue.
He had not kissed a woman other than Lisa since he was nineteen. The feel of Shelley’s mouth under his was both familiar and different at the same time. The thought of Lisa was both poignant and fleeting—then his mind was filled only with Shelley and how much he wanted to keep on kissing her. She tasted of cinnamon and apple with a fresh tang of mint as her tongue tangled with his.
Hired by the Brooding Billionaire Page 9
