Awakened by His Touch

by Nikki Logan

  ‘And?’

  ‘And it was...very interesting.’

  ‘But you aren’t very interested?’ he guessed aloud.

  Her smile, when it came, changed her face. And instantly she was that girl down by the beach again. Dancing in the surf. The mouth that was a hint too big for her face meant her smile was like the Cheshire Cat’s. Broad and intriguing. Totally honest. Yet hiding everything.

  ‘It sounds terrible when you say it like that.’

  ‘Is there another way to say no?’

  ‘Dozens.’ She laughed. ‘Or don’t you hear it very often?’

  Her parents exchanged a momentary glance. Not of concern at their daughter’s bluntness, rather more...speculative. She ignored them entirely.

  ‘I’d like to learn more about your new processes,’ he risked, appealing to her vanity since their new processes were her new processes. ‘And perhaps go further into what I have in mind.’

  She dismissed it out of hand. ‘We don’t do tours.’

  ‘You’ll barely notice me. I’m particularly good at the chameleon thing—’

  Two tiny lines appeared between brows a slightly lighter colour than her still damp hair and he realised that wasn’t the way in either.

  ‘And your Ashmore Coolidge health-check is due soon anyway. Two birds, one stone.’

  That, finally, had an impact. So Laney Morgan was efficient, if nothing else. His firm required biennial business health-checks on their clients to make sure everything was solid. By contract.

  ‘How long? An hour?’ she asked.

  His snort surprised her.

  ‘A day, at least. Possibly two.’

  ‘We’re to put you up on no notice?’

  Who knew a pair of tight lips could say so much?

  ‘No. I’ll get a room in town...’

  ‘You will not,’ Ellen piped up. ‘You can have a chalet.’

  He and Laney both snapped their faces towards her at the same time.

  ‘Mum...’

  ‘You have accommodation?’ That wasn’t in their file.

  Ellen laughed. ‘Nothing flash—just a couple of guest dwellings up in the winter paddock.’

  That was the best opening he was going to get. Staying on the property, staying close, was the fastest way to their compliance he could think of. ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘Mum!’

  Laney’s face gave nothing away but her voice was loaded with meaning. Too late. The offer was made. A couple of days might be all he needed to get to know all of the Morgan clan and influence their feelings about taking their operation global.

  ‘Thank you, Ellen, that’s very generous.’

  Her face gave nothing away, but Helena’s displeasure radiated from the more subtle tells in her body—her posture, the acute angle of her neck, as if someone was running fingernails down a chalkboard on some frequency the rest of them couldn’t hear. Except her dog couldn’t hear it either—he’d flopped down behind the sofa, fast asleep.

  ‘Laney, will you show Elliott up to the end chalet, please?’

  That sweet, motherly voice wasn’t without its own strength and it brooked no argument.

  When Laney straightened she was back to avoiding eye contact again. She smiled with as few muscles as possible, the subtext flashing in neon.

  ‘Sure.’

  She made the squeak noise again and her dog leapt to attention. She turned, trailed her hand along the back of the sofa and then around the next one, and reached for the cluster of leather he’d seen in her hand down at the beach from where it now hung over the back of a dining chair. As she bent and fitted it around the crazy, tearaway dog it totally changed demeanour; became attentive and professional. Then she stood and held the handle loosely in her left hand.

  And everything fell into place.

  The death-defying coffee pour. The standoffish outstretched hand. The lack of hard eye contact.

  Laney Morgan wasn’t a princess or judgmental—at least she wasn’t only those things.

  Laney Morgan—whom he’d seen dancing so joyously on the beach, who had taken a family honey business and built it into one of the most successful in the country, and who had just served him his own genitals on a plate—couldn’t see.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘YOU’RE BLIND,’ ELLIOTT GARVEY murmured from Laney’s right, the moment they were outside.

  ‘You’re staring.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ he defended after a brief pause, his voice saturated with unease.

  ‘I could feel it.’ And then, at the subtle catch in his breath. ‘Practically feel it, Mr Garvey. Not literally.’ Though he certainly wouldn’t be the first to expect her to have some kind of vision-impaired ESP.

  He cleared his throat. ‘You hide it well.’

  Wilbur protested her sudden halt with a huff of doggie breath.

  ‘I don’t hide it at all.’

  ‘Right, no...sorry. Poor choice of words.’

  Confusion pumped from him and she got the sense that he was a man who very rarely let himself get flustered. It was tempting to play him, just a little, but her mother had raised her never to exploit the discomfiture of others. Because if she expected to be taken at face value how could she do less for anyone else?

  Even intruding corporate types from the city.

  She adjusted her trajectory at Wilbur’s slight left tug and passed through the first gate beside her dog. ‘I’ve had twenty-five years to perfect things, Mr Garvey. Plus the direction of your breathing gave you away.’

  ‘Elliott.’

  Then he fell silent again and she wondered if he was looking around at their farm...or at her still? Scrutiny never had sat lightly on her.

  ‘He’s very focussed. Wilbur, was it?’

  Okay, neither of the above. He’d managed to zero in on her favourite talking point.

  ‘Captain Furry-Pants to his friends.’ She smiled. ‘When the harness is on, he’s on. When it comes off he’s just a regular dog. Making up for lost time by being extra goofy. Getting it out of his system.’

  They walked on to the steady reassurance of the sound of gravel crunching under eight feet.

  ‘Your property is beautiful. This peninsula is extraordinary.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Have you ever lived anywhere else?’

  ‘Why would I? It’s perfect here. The wildlife. The space.’

  His lagging steps pulled him further behind. ‘The beaches...’

  There was more than just tension in his voice. There was apology in the way he cleared his throat.She quarter-turned her head back towards him as she continued onward and the penny dropped.

  Wilbur’s quiet growls down by the water... ‘That was you?’

  ‘I was using the lookout. I didn’t realise it overlooked a private beach. I’m sorry.’

  Had he watched her wading? Dancing? It took a lot to make her feel vulnerable these days. Not that she was going to let him know that.

  She tossed her hair back. ‘You got a first-hand demonstration of Wilbur in off-harness mode, then.’

  His crunching footsteps resumed. ‘Yeah, he was having a ball.’

  ‘He loves to swim.’

  Awesome—she was like a radio stuck on Channel Wilbur. Time for some effort. ‘So you must have drawn the short straw, being sent by your firm so far from the city?’

  ‘Not at all. I chose to come. Morgan’s isn’t on anyone else’s radar.’

  That got her attention. ‘You make it sound like a competition.’

  ‘It is. It’s the best part of the job. Finding raw talent, developing it.’

  Realising it. She stepped with Wilbur around an obstacle and then smelled it as she passed. A cowpat. Behind her, Garvey grunted. Pr
esumably, he hadn’t been so lucky. She didn’t stop and he caught up straight away.

  ‘Did you miss it?’

  ‘Just.’

  He didn’t sound irked. If anything, that was amusement warming his voice. Her lips twisted. ‘Sorry, we have a couple of milk cows that free range.’

  Silence reigned for the next minute or two and, again, she had to assume he was looking around at the farm, its outbuildings and condition. Critically? Morgan’s had modern facilities to go with its spectacular coastal location but being judged had never sat comfortably on her. The smell of tiny wildflowers kicked up from underfoot.

  ‘So if it’s a competitive process, and we’re not on anyone else’s radar, does that mean no one else at your firm believes we have potential?’

  He took his time answering. Something she appreciated. He wasn’t a man to rush to fill a silence.

  ‘It means they lack vision. And they’re not paying attention.’

  Okay, for a city boy he definitely had a great voice. Intelligent and measured and just the right amount of gravel. It was only when she gave him another mental tick that she realised she’d started a list.

  ‘But you are?’

  ‘I’ve been tracking your progress a long time—’ His voice shifted upwards a semi-tone. ‘Are those tyres?’

  The rapid subject-change threw her, but he had to mean the chalets that they were approaching.

  ‘Dad had one of his recycling frenzies a couple of years ago and made a couple up for family and friends—’ and inconvenient visitors from the city ‘—when they visit. Tyres and rammed earth on the outside but pretty flash on the inside. Bed, open fire and privacy.’ For them as much as their guests. ‘And what I’m reliably informed are some pretty spectacular ocean views.’

  Tension eased out of him on a satisfied sigh. ‘You’re not wrong. One hundred and eighty degrees.’

  She stopped at the door to the chalet on the end, used the doorframe to orientate herself and pointed left. ‘Manufacturing is over that way, beach is down that track, and the first of the bee yards is up behind this hill. You should probably take a bit of time to settle in. Can you find your way back to your car for your things?’

  Idiot, she chided herself. He could probably see it from here. There was nothing between them and the Morgan’s car park but open paddock. What was wrong with her? Maybe her brain cells were drunk on whatever that was coming off him.

  ‘Yep. I’m good. Do I need to be somewhere at a particular time?’

  ‘Are you allergic to bees?’

  ‘Only one way to find out.’

  The man faced life head-on. Her favourite direction. ‘Well, if you feel like living dangerously, come on up the hill in twenty minutes. I’ll be checking the bees.’

  Soonest started, soonest done. She turned and thrust the chalet key at him and warm fingers brushed hers as he took it.

  ‘Do I need protective gear?’ he murmured.

  ‘Not unless you plan on plunging your hands into the hives. This first community is pretty chill.’ Which wasn’t true of all their bees, but definitely true of her favourites. ‘But maybe wear sunglasses.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks, Laney.’

  His voice lifted with him as he stepped up into the unlocked chalet but there was an unidentifiable something else in his tone. Sorrow? Why would he be sad? He was getting his way. She thought about protesting his presumption in using her nickname but then remembered what he’d probably seen down on the beach. Niceties, after that, seemed rather pointless. Although it did still have the rather useful value of contrasting with her own formality.

  ‘You’re welcome, Mr Garvey.’

  With a flick of her wrist Wilbur full-circled and walked her down the hill and back through the gate, leaving the subtle dismissal lingering in the air behind her. As soon as she turned him left, towards one of the closest bee yards, Wilbur realised where they were going and he lengthened his strides, excited. He loved the beach first and the bees second. Because when she was elbow-deep in bees he was free to romp around the yards as much as he wanted.

  Laney was always pleasantly breathless when she crested the hill to the A-series hives, and, as she always did, she stalled at the top and turned to survey the property. The landscape of her imagination. It was branded into her brain in a way that didn’t need the verification of sight—the layout, the view as it had been described to her over the years. Three generations of buildings where all their manufacturing and processing was done, the endless ocean beyond that.

  She had no way of knowing how like the real thing her mixed-sense impression of it was, but ultimately it didn’t matter what it really looked like. In her mind it was magnificent. And she had the smells and the sounds and the pristinely fresh air to back it up.

  So when Elliott Garvey complimented the Morgan property she knew it was genuine. They’d had enough approaches from city folk wanting to buy in to know that it was one of the better-looking properties in the district. But that was not why her family loved it. At least it wasn’t only why they loved it. They loved it because it was fertile and well-positioned, in a coastal agricultural district, and undulating and overflowing with wildflowers, and because it backed on two sides onto nature reserves packed with Marri and Jarrah trees which meant their bees had a massive foraging range and their honey had a distinctive geo-flavour that was popular with customers.

  And because it was home. The most important of all. Where she’d lived since her parents had first brought her home from the hospital, swaddled in a hand-loomed blanket.

  That was the potential they all believed in. Regardless of what else Call-Me-Elliott Garvey saw in Morgan’s.

  * * *

  What was the protocol in this kind of situation? Should he stomp his feet on the thick grassed turf so that she could hear him coming? Cough? Announce himself?

  In the end Wilbur took matters into his own paws and came bounding over, collar tags jangling, alerting Helena to Elliott’s presence as effectively as a herald. The dog was mostly dry now, and had traded damp dog smell for fresh grass smell, and he responded immediately to Wilbur’s eager-eyed entreaty with a solid wrestle and coat-rub.

  ‘Hey, there, Captain Furry-Pants.’ Well, they were kind of friends now, right? And Wilbur’s haunches were particularly furry. ‘Still got energy left?’

  ‘Boundless,’ Laney said without looking around, her attention very much on what she was doing at one of dozens of belly-height boxes.

  She’d thrown a long-sleeved shirt over her summer dress but that was it for the protective wear he’d imagined they would wear on a busy apiary. One for the ‘risks’ column in his report. A handful of bees busied themselves in the air around her but their orbit was relaxed. A steady stream of others took off for the fields behind them and made way for the ones returning.

  It was as busy as any of the airports he’d passed through in his time. And there’d been many.

  He slid his sunglasses on and felt, again, a pang at Laney’s earlier kindness: a woman who had no use of her eyes taking the trouble to watch out for his.

  ‘Can I approach?’

  ‘Sure. Watch your feet in case any bees are on the grass.’

  His focus shifted from the airborne bees to the possibility of stealth bees underfoot. There were one or two. ‘Are they sick?’

  Her laugh caused a whisper of a ripple in the steady hum coming off the bees. Like a tiny living echo. ‘They’re just resting. Or moisture-seeking.’

  ‘How do you not step on them?’

  ‘I slide rather than tread,’ she said, without taking her focus off what she was doing. ‘Kind of a rollerblading motion. It gives them a chance to take off.’

  He stepped up closer. ‘You’ve rollerbladed?’

  ‘Of course.’

  As if it was such a given. />
  ‘That’s probably close enough,’ she confirmed as he moved just behind her shoulder. ‘And if I say run, do it. Straight back downhill to the carriage.’

  He studied her face for any indication that she was kidding. There was nothing. ‘Is that my safety induction?’

  ‘Sure is. It’s a fairly simple rule. Don’t touch and don’t stick around if things get active.’

  And leave a blind woman undefended while bees swarmed? Not going to happen. But they could argue that out after they were both safe.

  Her fingers dusted over the surface of the open hive, over the thronging mass itself, but the bees didn’t seem to mind. Some hunkered down under her touch, others massed onto the back of her hand and crawled off the other side, or just held on for the free ride. None seemed perturbed.

  ‘What are you doing, exactly?’ he asked.

  ‘Just checking them.’

  ‘For...?’

  ‘For hive beetle.’

  ‘What’s your process?’

  He held his most recent breath. Would she hear the subtext clearly? How can you do that, blind?

  But if she did, she let it go with a gracious smile. Just as well, because he had a feeling that a lot of his questions were going to start that way.

  ‘The bees are kind of...fluid. They move under touch. But the beetles are wedged in hard. A bit like pushing your fingers through barley in search of a pinhead.’

  There was a truckload of bees swarming over the hive and Laney’s hands, but something about the totally unconcerned way she interacted with them—and her own sketchy safety gear—gave him the confidence to lean in as she pulled a frame out of several racked in the hive. It was thick with bees and honeycomb and—sure enough—the odd tiny black beetle.

  Which she cut mercilessly in half with her thumbnail as her fingers found them.

  ‘Pest?’

  ‘Plague.’ She shook her head. ‘But we have it better here on the peninsula. And want to keep it that way.’

  Her bare fingers forked methodically through the thick clumps of bees.