by YatesNZ, Jen
The huge animal sniffed and licked Fran's hand, then went still as Torr came round the car. Man and dog silently surveyed one another. Torr sank to his haunches and the bitch stepped into his embrace, licking his face. As a `Katja welcome' it was unprecedented. Very conscious of her regal consequence, a sniff and a lick of the hand was all she ever accorded anyone other than Georgina. Feeling as if another brick had been kicked from her foundations, Georgina swung round to the back of the wagon to open the boot.
‘When do we get to meet the great Gould Barrington?’ Fran asked as they began extricating luggage. ‘Imagine my sister living with a famous writer!’
‘I'm surrounded by them,’ Georgina managed to respond, with a bright smile for her sister. ‘I'd hoped he'd be back by now. He went out to the airfield at Dairy Flat. He's into sky diving at the moment. He should've been born a bird.’
‘Is this for a book?’ Fran's eyes were shining.
She was as much of an adventure freak as Gould, Georgina thought.
‘Most likely,’ she agreed, suddenly uncomfortably aware he rarely discussed his current projects with her. ‘He also owns a small plane, a Cessna, and it's housed out there, so he's probably put in a couple of hours flying as well.’
‘Great! Maybe he can give us a sight-seeing trip. Can he take passengers?’
Georgina nodded and led the way into the house, Katja trotting close at her heels. ‘He'll be delighted. Any excuse to get off the ground.’
Often she wondered what it was that drew Gould to her whose idea of adventure was a brisk walk around the lake with Katja. Now was not a good time to think about that, or the lazy dark flame that burned in his eyes when she'd asked him. Several times lately, she'd caught herself wondering what she and Gould would have if they weren't so well-matched in bed.
‘Wow, George! The photos you sent don't do it justice,’ Fran marveled, as they emerged into a slate tiled foyer with a waterfall cascading down a natural rock wall facing the front entrance. Wide slate steps led down to the living area on the left and another flight of polished dark wood disappeared upwards to the right. Ferns grew round a tiny stone pool at the foot of the cascade and the whole was naturally lit through arched windows above the solid wood front door.
Georgina smiled at Fran's enthusiasm.
‘Case should've been an architect. I left the planning to him so long as he used stone and wood and this is what he delivered. I love it.’
Her hand dropped to Katja's head.
‘I always wondered what attracted Merryn to him,’ Fran commented, dabbling her fingers in the cool water. ‘All I could ever see were tats and leather and chains! Looked like jail-bait to me.’
Georgina sighed. That was a pretty fair description of the image their brother-in-law liked to portray to the world.
‘He's a fraud.’
‘He must be. My image certainly doesn't tie in with what Merryn tells me they're doing these days,’ Fran rejoined warmly. ‘I'm dying to see the crystal shop. And wee Jordie. How is he?’
‘He's coming along fine. The operations on his foot are completed now. He's—fine.’ Georgina swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat at the thought of their brave little nephew who'd been born with a club foot. ‘They're all coming to dinner tonight. Your room's upstairs.’
‘Great! Over-looking the lake, I hope?’
‘Of course!’ Georgina grinned at her sister as she danced past up the stairs, then called after her, ‘You're supposed to be suffering from jet-lag.’
‘We travelled first class so I slept quite well. I feel great,’ Fran called back.
Glancing back to see if Torr was following, Georgina was glad of the solid balustrade at her back. Loose limbed, he stood framed against the golden teakwood front door with the luggage at his feet. His gaze was fixed on the carved stone dragon poised at the top of the rock wall. Water flowing from its mouth reflected a rainbow light-dance from crystal prisms in the high window. Georgina found herself standing just so every time she entered the house. The brilliance of sun-kissed water bringing life to the soft natural colors of the rock washed all the dross of the day from her soul.
But it was more than her recognition of Torr's moment of connection with her home. For a second in time she saw his aura as clearly as she might see her own reflection in a mirror. Merryn saw everyone's auras. Both Fran and her mother claimed to have seen auras from time to time.
Georgina had never seen an aura in her life, had trouble believing they existed, and no desire to begin seeing them now! Jolting forward as if the balustrade had suddenly become electrified, she dashed up the stairs after her sister. The sooner she showed them where they were sleeping and could get downstairs to pour herself something alcoholic the better.
‘George, it's wonderful!’ Fran called from the balcony overlooking the lake. ‘What a magnificent spot—and so close to the center of the city.’
Georgina prowled around the room, twitching at the rose colored cushions on the corner couch and straightening the matching satin quilt on the bed.
‘You've got an ensuite—um towels—um everything's here I think—um—’
‘George, you're positively wound up like a top.’ Fran stepped in from the balcony. Eyeing her sister with concern, she hugged her then said, ‘Relax. It doesn't matter. Nothing does. It's just good to be here!’
Georgina hugged her back.
‘Fran—when you see auras, what do you see?’
‘Auras?’ Fran leant back in her sister's embrace, looking startled. ‘Well, colors. That's what auras are. Why?’
‘Ah—nothing. I think I'm just tired.’ Georgina pulled away to open the bathroom door. ‘There's probably about an hour until Mum and Merryn and Case get here. There's plenty of hot water if you want a shower. Towels in the cupboard. There's a spa pool downstairs on the patio—where I intend to be five minutes from now. You're welcome to join me—or—whatever. Just make yourselves at home.’
‘George?’
‘Yeah?’
Georgina eyed her sister warily.
‘Relax for goodness sake! It's only me! And Torr—well his name sounds like a bull but he's just a big pussy-cat.—Aren't you, darling?’ Fran addressed the man entering the room and moved across to caress the dark mask of his face that was about the only part of him not obscured by luggage.
A fire-breathing dragon more like!
The hard green gaze softened as it slid from Georgina to her sister and Georgina was appalled by the claws of jealousy raking through her gut.
She wanted her sister's fiancé.
‘Come down when you're ready,’ she called, halfway down the stairs before even mentally acknowledging that the `fire-breathing dragon' phrase might have been written in flaming letters a foot high in the air between them, though neither had opened their mouths. She scarcely noticed Katja waiting for her in the hall but the dog fell into step beside her, her mystical ice blue eyes steady and watchful.
Ten minutes later Georgina had checked the beef casserole simmering in the slow cooker and put a roasting dish filled with vegetables into the oven. Clad in her old black maillot swimsuit instead of her usual bikini, and cradling a glass of chilled wine to her forehead, she slid beneath the bubbling water of the spa and commanded herself to unwind. Focusing on the delicious spears of ice cold numbing her brain, she could almost keep at bay the wild thoughts skittering along the fringes of her mind. She was afraid to let them crystallize into something that must be examined, acknowledged.
Her mother, her sisters, Merryn in particular, had always been psychic. But her? Never! She'd simply refused to allow it. So why now? She had to be imagining things. She who had as much imagination as cold, day old porridge.
It hadn't occurred to her to `imagine' her fifty-four year old husband could have four grown sons, all older than herself, when she'd married him. Or that one of them could harbor such malice, even as his father lay dying. As usual, her mind shied away from the bitter memories, but the fact remained
she almost consciously repressed any tendency to the fanciful.
So how was she to explain the ephemeral, but absolutely clear, auric outline she'd seen of an ancient Warrior Lord towering behind Torr Montgomery, complete with burnished gold horned helmet and massive iron broadsword? Or those words burning themselves into her mind at the airport?
The Warrior Lord, greatest of all the Sons of the Dragon. A fire-breathing dragon?
It had to be something she'd seen on the dust-cover of a book recently, dredged up by an over-tired, over-wrought mind. She really must take a break after this book launch. No, make that after the conference at which she was speaking on what a café-cum-bookshop could do to promote a writer's work. Long hours were taking their toll and she was tired beyond sanity. It was the only possible explanation.
As to wanting Torr Montgomery, that at least she could rationalize. The man was testosterone personalized. Gould had started researching for his latest book, was spending more and more time at the airfield and it had been over a week since they'd gone to bed at the same time or made love; which was unusual when Gould was home. He'd tuned her body to regular bouts of very satisfying sex. She was feeling needy, was all.
Georgina took a long slow drink from the glass then froze at the clatter of footsteps on the stairs.
‘Where's the spa, George?’
Fran's voice was quickly followed by her golden self scarcely decent in miniscule scraps of scarlet Lycra and trailing a large bath towel. Fran had never been troubled by the sometimes crippling bouts of inadequacy that assailed Georgina. She'd been born taking the forward step, knowing how to make positives out of every negative aspect of her life. While she, Georgina ruefully admitted to herself, had been born almost diving backwards, looking to efface herself at every juncture. Fran had early determined her unusual height would work to her advantage. Georgina had always envied her sister's sangfroid yet never managed to emulate it.
Torr Montgomery walked out onto the patio behind Fran, and Georgina closed her eyes.
‘There's beer, wine, or soft drink in the fridge in the kitchen.’
She rushed into speech in an effort to block the image of the man stripped down to black swimming briefs. He'd almost had to duck through the doorway and there'd been scant daylight between his shoulders and the doorposts. She allowed herself another brief glance. The Warrior image hadn't reappeared but the air of leashed strength and power in the perfectly proportioned body set a wild pulse hammering at the base of her throat. He would not have been out of place on the cover of a bodybuilding magazine. On some elemental level she couldn't begin to define, the man threatened the very fabric of her life, a fabric carefully woven to conceal the real Georgina Hackville.
Fran disappeared back into the house to fetch drinks.
‘Bring the wine with you when you come please, Fran!’ Georgina called after her. She was going to need more than one glass to calm her leaping pulses.
‘This is a beautiful spot. You could forget you're in the middle of a city. I'd like to see more. Would you mind if I walk down to the lake?’ Torr asked from the edge of the patio.
Georgina was unaware she'd been holding her breath until it whooshed gently between her lips with relief. ‘Sure,’ she said hastily. ‘Just be careful at the lake edge. Some work needs doing there. We haven't yet decided what. It's a bit boggy.’
Like life.
For a brief second the smoldering green gaze connected with Georgina's before he vaulted off the patio to the lawn below and disappeared amongst the shrubbery.
Georgina rested her head against the edge of the pool and tried to decide whether either of them had spoken the words or how she knew they'd both heard them. Wondered too at the scars and slightly misshapen muscles of his lower legs, which nevertheless, hadn't hampered his grace of movement. Restlessly she sought the relaxation she usually experienced in the spa. Her body didn't seem able to stay still, much less relax. Every time she almost achieved the desired state her mind would replay the picture of that sun-bronzed, muscular body leaping to the ground with the power and precision of a hi-tech machine and she would hear words neither had uttered.
Gould was well-built, even beautiful. But Torr Montgomery in the raw was stunning. What was wrong with her? She was reacting like a sex-starved spinster with no hope of a fulfilling physical relationship, instead of as a woman who enjoyed a very rich and satisfying partnership.
‘I love the house, George,’ Fran enthused as she stepped out onto the patio again. ‘If I was sticking around I'd get Case to design one for me. I can't believe that man.’
‘He only drew the idea. An architect drafted the plans.’
‘Even so,’ Fran mused as she looked about her, ‘I'm impressed. What're you doing with the floor in the kitchen?’
‘Arguing.’
Fran's laughter, golden bright like herself, ribboned into the steam as she stepped into the spa. She refilled Georgina's glass from the wine bottle then settled herself in the water.
‘You never used to argue. I had the ideas and you agreed! I think I need to explain a thing or two to your Gould.’
Georgina grinned and relaxed a little.
‘I'm not quite as compliant as I used to be.’
‘Mmm. I did notice that,’ Fran commented, giving her sister a long, contemplative look. ‘Comes from being your own boss, I guess.’ She leaned across to clink her glass with Georgina's. ‘Cheers! Here's to success for both of us.’
‘Cheers—and welcome home.’
They both sipped then Fran put her glass down and asked, ‘So what is it that's not happening in the kitchen?’
‘Tiles,’ Georgina said with a sigh, placing her glass beside Fran's. ‘When the house was first built I couldn't decide what I wanted on the floor in that kitchen-breakfast nook area so I just had it stained and done with polyurethane. Gould really liked that and his choice would be to put more and more coats of poly on it until it’s like a glass surface over the wood. But I want something—a bit more—that would give a flow-on effect into the small conservatory. I went to a `House and Home' expo and saw these terracotta tiles with small inserts of colored glazing, and loved them. Gould says we might as well rip up the floor and just have dirt. It'd be cheaper—and easier.’
‘Are you doing it yourselves?’
Georgina picked up her glass and twirled it contemplatively.
‘I thought we might and Gould did agree since I was set on having it. But I'm beginning to think either he really doesn't like the idea of tiles or—he's just not the handyman type.’
‘Probably the latter,’ Fran stated knowingly.
Georgina raised her brows questioningly at her sister.
‘It's obvious,’ she laughed, spreading her hands under the water. ‘The man's a writer! Writer's don't—lay tiles!’
‘Definitely not in my experience!’ growled a deep voice, and Torr, again ignoring the steps, vaulted up onto the patio and with only a brief glance at the two already in possession, stepped into the pool, settling himself on the submerged seat opposite. Fran immediately slid around until her body was snug against his and lifting an arm, he pulled her in closer. ‘She might lay me on the tiles but she refused point blank to have anything to do with the laying of the tiles themselves.’
‘Oh, very cute,’ Fran agreed with a hint of teasing sarcasm. ‘Actually George, Torr's the one to talk to about laying tiles. He's just re-done the main bathroom in his house. You know, the old Dower House? He's made a fabulous job.’
Georgina was still a step back in the conversation, her imagination running riot with the vision of Torr making love on swathes of soft white towels on gleaming blue and white tiles—and the woman in the picture wasn't her sister. Gripping the stem of the glass, she forced her hand to remain steady while taking a sip of the wine and dragged her mind to what Fran had just been saying. The new image that came to mind was almost as dangerous as the last. Torr on his knees beside her laying tiles, conjured up images that had nothing to
do with house decorating and everything to do with hurtling all her senses into overdrive.
This was worse than when Gavin, Alan's son, had seduced her while his father lay near death. This time she hadn't the excuse of the emotional and physical exhaustion of hours sitting with her sick husband waiting for him to die. She was tired but couldn’t claim to be under any sort of stress. It was instead, she decided, a case of the whore, whom Gavin had accused of being the basis of her nature, slipping through the cracks of the walls she'd so carefully plastered around her. There was no way she would ever lay herself open to such an accusation again.
‘You're laying tiles?’
‘Yes. In the kitchen.’
‘I'd be glad to help.’
What was there in that small exchange to set her pulse leaping, to heat her blood so it throbbed in her lower regions with a fury she'd rarely experienced?
Then he added with a sideways grin for Fran, ‘We'll lock the writers out. They'll only want to write in the grout.’
‘Huh!’ Fran cried, slapping her hand on the water and splashing him. ‘Writers are also very good at making coffee and snacks, which tile layers need like anyone else!’
‘Writers only make food and coffee when they've got writer's block, not when someone actually needs it,’ Torr retaliated, gripping Fran's wrists and grinning wickedly.
Immediately Fran was on her feet trying to twist Torr under the water while he, with what Georgina considered was a typical male tactic, tried to overbalance her with his foot.
Georgina felt suddenly starved for air. Her body was so aware Torr Montgomery shared the same pool her skin was prickling and parts of her simply ached. More than that, her hands were clenched into fists beneath the water to keep from clawing her sister away from him. In the interests of self-preservation it would be sensible if she used the need to check on dinner as an excuse to leave them together in the pool.
Not that there was anything to do. She'd carefully chosen a menu that would leave her free to entertain her guests. It seemed like a lifetime ago, that time of innocent happiness before meeting her sister's fiancé.
